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RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


By ZANE GREY 

~ The Mysterious Rider 
The Man of the Forest 
Tales of Fishes 
The Desert of Wheat 
The U. P. Trail 
^ Wildfire 

The Border Legion 
The Rainbow Trail 
The Lone Star Ranger 
The Light of Western Stars 
Desert Gold 

The Heritage of the Desert 
Riders of the Purple Sage 
The Young Forester 
The Young Pitcher 
The Young Lion-Hunter 
Ken Ward in the Jungle 

HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK 
Established 1817 


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HE HAS BROUGHT YOU FAR TO-DAY?” 



RIDERS 

OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

A NOVEL 

By 

Zane Grey 

Author of 

“The Mysterious Rider” “The Man of the Forest” 

“Desert Gold” ‘‘The U. P. Trail” “Tales of Fishes” “Wildfire” 

*‘The Desert of Wheat” “The Lone Star Ranger” etc. 


With Illustrations in Color hy 
W. Herbert Dunton 




HARPER ar BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
NEW YORK AND LONDON 



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Riders of the Purple Sage 

Copyright, 1912, by Harper & Brothers 
Copyright, 1921, by Harper & Brothers 
Printed in the United States of America 
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CONTENTS 


CBAFTBR PAGE 

I. Lassiter 1 

II. Cottonwoods 13 

in. Amber Spring 25 

rV. Deception Pass 38 

V. The Masked Rider 52 

VI. The Mill-wheel of Steers 65 

Vn. The Daughter op Withersteen 82 

VIII. Surprise Valley 93 

IX. Silver Spruce and Aspens 108 

X. Love 124 

XI. Faith and Unfaith 140 

XII. The Invisible Hand 158 

Xni. Solitude and Storm 175 

XIV. West Wind 190 

XV. Shadows on the Sage-slope 201 

XVI. Gold 222 

XVn. Wrangle’s Race Run 234 

XVIII. Oldring’s Knell 252 

XIX. Fay 269 

XX. Lassiter’s Way 283 

XXI. Black Star and Night 296 

XXII. Riders op the Purple Sage 315 

XXin. The Fall op Balancing Rock 323 


#' 


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ILLUSTRATIONS 


“He Has Brought You Far To-day?” Frontispiece 

Like a Flash the Blue Barrel of His Rifle Gleamed Level 

AND He Shot Once — Twice reusing p . 50 

“Oh, He’s Only a Boy! . . . What! Can He Be Oldring’s Masked 

Rider?” “ 54 

“What on Earth Is That?” “ 78 

He Did Not Pause Until He Gained the Narrow Divide . . “ 110 

“Bess, I’ll Not Go Again” “ 138 

It Was Jane’s Gaze Riveted Upon the Rider That Made 

Bishop Dyer Turn “ 152 

Venters and Bess Finished Their Simple Meal — Then Faced 
THE Open Terrace, to Watch and Await the Approaching 

Storm “ 134 

Just as Wrangle Plunged Again He Caught the Whizz of a 

Leaden Missile ‘ ^38 

And Venters Shot Him Through the Heart 260 

“Don’t--Look— Back!” “ ^94 

When He and Bess Rode Up Out of the Hollow the Sun Was 

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RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 



RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


CHAPTER I 


LASSITER 


SHARP clip-clop of iron-shod hoofs deadened and died 



away, and clouds of yellow dust drifted from under the 
cottonwoods out over the sage. 

Jane Withersteen gazed down the wide purple slope with 
dreamy and troubled eyes. A rider had just left her and it was 
her message that held her thoughtful and almost sad, awaiting 
the churchmen who were coming to resent and attack her right 
to befriend a Gentile. 

She wondered if the unrest and strife that had lately come 
to the little village of Cottonwoods was to involve her. And 
then she sighed, remembering that her father had founded this 
remotest border settlement of southern Utah and that he had 
left it to her. She owned all the ground and many of the cot- 
tages. Withersteen House was hers, and the great ranch, with its 
thousands of cattle, and the swiftest horses of the sage. To her 
belonged Amber Spring, the water which gave verdure and 
beauty to the village and made living possible on that wild purple 
upland waste. She could not escape being involved by whatever 
befell Cottonwoods. 

That year, 1871, had marked a change which had been gradu- 
ally coming in the lives of the peace-loving Mormons of the 


2 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

border. Glaze — Stone Bridge — Sterling, villages to the north, 
had risen against the invasion of Gentile settlers and the forays 
of rustlers. There had been opposition to the one and fighting 
with the other. And now Cottonwoods had begun to wake and 
bestir itself and grow hard. 

Jane prayed that the tranquillity and sweetness of her life 
would not be permanently disrupted. She meant to do so much 
more for her people than she had done. She wanted the sleepy, 
quiet, pastoral days to last always. Trouble between the Mor- 
mons and the Gentiles of the community would make her un- 
happy. She was Mormon-born, and she was a friend to poor 
and unfortunate Gentiles. She wished only to go on doing good 
and being happy. And she thought of what that great ranch 
meant to her. She loved it all — the grove of cottonwoods, the 
old stone house, the amber-tinted water, and the droves of 
shaggy, dusty horses and mustangs, the sleek, clean-limbed, 
blooded racers, and the browsing herds of cattle and the lean, 
sun-browned riders of the sage. 

While she waited there she forgot the prospect of untoward 
change. The bray of a lazy burro broke the afternoon quiet, 
and it was comfortingly suggestive of the drowsy farmyard, 
and the open corrals, and the green alfalfa fields. Her clear 
sight intensified the purple sage-slope as it rolled before her. 
Low swells of prairie-like ground sloped up to the west. Dark, 
lonely cedar-trees, few and far between, stood out strikingly, 
and at long distances ruins of red rocks. Farther on, up the 
gradual slope, rose a broken wall, a huge monument, looming 
dark purple and stretching its solitary, mystic way, a wavering 
line that faded in the north. Here to the westward was the 
light and color and beauty. Northward the slope descended 
to a dim line of canons from which rose an upflinging of the 
earth, not mountainous, but a vast heave of purple uplands, with 
ribbed and fan-shaped walls, castle-crowned cliffs, and gray 


LASSITER 3 

escarpments. Over it all crept the lengthening, waning afternoon 
shadows. 

The rapid beat of hoofs recalled Jane Withersteen to the 
question at hand. A group of riders cantered up the lane, dis- 
mounted, and threw their bridles. They were seven in number, 
and Tull, the leader, a tall, dark man, was an elder of Jane’s 
church. 

“Did you get my message?” he asked, curtly. 

“Yes,” replied Jane. 

“I sent word I’d give that rider Venters half an hour to come 
down to the village. He didn’t come.” 

“He knows nothing of it,” said Jane. “I didn’t tell him. 
I’ve been waiting here for you.” 

“Where is Venters?” 

“I left him in the courtyard.” 

“Here, Jerry,” called Tull, turning to his men, “take the 
gang and fetch Venters out here if you have to rope him.” 

The dusty-booted and long-spurred riders clanked noisily 
into the grove of cottonwoods and disappeared in the shade. 

“Elder Tull, what do you mean by this?” demanded Jane. 
“If you must arrest Venters you might have the courtesy to 
wait till he leaves my home. And if you do arrest him it will be 
adding insult to injury. It’s absurd to accuse Venters of being 
mixed up in that shooting fray in the village last night. He was 
with me at the time. Besides, he let me take charge of his guns. 
You’re only using this as a pretext. What do you mean to do to 
Venters?” 

“I’ll tell you presently,” replied Tull. “But first tell me 
why you defend this worthless rider?” 

“Worthless!” exclaimed Jane, indignantly. “He’s nothing 
of the kind. He was the best rider I ever had. There’s not a 
reason why I shouldn’t champion him and every reason why I 
should. It’s no little shame to me. Elder Tull, that through 


4 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


my friendship he has roused the enmity of my people and become 
an outcast. Besides, I owe him eternal gratitude for saving the 
life of little Fay.” 

“I’ve heard of your love for Fay Larkin and that you intend 
to adopt her. But — Jane Withersteen, the child is a Gentile!” 

“Yes. But, Elder, I don’t love the Mormon children any less 
because I love a Gentile child. I shall adopt Fay if her mother 
will give her to me.” 

“I’m not so much against that. You can give the child 
Mormon teaching,” said Tull. “ But I’m sick of seeing this fellow 
Venters hang around you. I’m going to put a stop to it. You’ve 
so much love to throw away on these beggars of Gentiles that 
I’ve an idea you might love Venters.” 

Tull spoke with the arrogance of a Mormon whose power 
could not be brooked and with the passion of a man in whom 
jealousy had kindled a consuming fire. 

“Maybe I do love him,” said Jane. She felt both fear and 
anger stir her heart. “I’d never thought of that. Poor fellow! 
he certainly needs some one to love him.” 

“This ’ll be a bad day for Venters unless you deny that,” 
returned Tull, grimly. 

Tull’s men appeared under the cottonwoods and led a young 
man out into the lane. His ragged clothes were those of an 
outcast. But he stood tall and straight, his wide shoulders 
flung back, with the muscles of his bound arms rippling and a 
blue flame of defiance in the gaze he bent on Tull. 

For the first time Jane Withersteen felt Venters’s real spirit. 
She wondered if she would love this splendid youth. Then her 
emotion cooled to the sobering sense of the issue at stake. 

“Venters, will you leave Cottonwoods at once and forever?” 
asked Tull, tensely. 

“Why?” rejoined the rider. 

“Because I order it.” 


LASSITER 


5 


Venters laughed in cool disdain. 

The red leaped to Tull’s dark cheek. 

“If you don’t go it means your ruin,” he said, sharply. 

“Ruin!” exclaimed Venters, passionately. “Haven’t you 
already ruined me? What do you call ruin? A year ago I was 
a rider. I had horses and cattle of my own. I had a good name 
in Cottonwoods. And now when I come into the village to see 
this woman you set your men on me. You hound me. You 
trail me as if I were a rustler. I’ve no more to lose — except my 
life.” 

“Will you leave Utah?” 

“Oh! I know,” went on Venters, tauntingly, “it galls you, 
the idea of beautiful Jane Withersteen being friendly to a poor 
Gentile. You want her all yourself. You’re a wiving Mormon. 
You have use for her — and Withersteen House and Amber 
Spring and seven thousand head of cattle!” 

Tull’s hard jaw protruded, and rioting blood corded the veins 
of his neck. 

“Once more. Will you go?” 

“iVo.'” 

“Then I’ll have you whipped within an inch of your life,” 
replied Tull, harshly. “I’ll turn you out in the sage. And if 
you ever come back you’ll get worse.” 

Venters’s agitated face grew coldly set and the bronze 
changed to gray. 

Jane impulsively stepped forward. “Oh! Elder Tull!” she 
cried. “You won’t do that!” 

Tull lifted a shaking finger toward her. 

“That ’ll do from you. Understand, you’ll not be allowed to 
hold this boy to a friendship that’s offensive to your Bishop. 
Jane Withersteen, your father left you wealth and power. It 
has turned your head. You haven’t yet come to see the place 
of Mormon women. We’ve reasoned with you, borne with you. 


6 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

We’ve patiently waited. We’ve let you have your fling, which 
is more than I ever saw granted to a Mormon woman. But 
you haven’t come to your senses. Now, once for all, you can t 
have any further friendship with Venters. He s going to be 
whipped, and he’s got to leave Utah!” 

“Oh! Don’t whip him! It would be dastardly!” implored 
Jane, with slow certainty of her failing courage. 

Tull always blunted her spirit, and she grew conscious that she 
had feigned a boldness which she did not possess. He loonaed 
up now in different guise, not as a jealous suitor, but embodying 
the mysterious despotism she had known from childhood — the 
power of her creed. 

“Venters, will you take your whipping here or would you 
rather go out in the sage?” asked Tull. He smiled a flinty 
smile that was more than inhuman, yet seemed to give out 
of its dark aloofness a gleam of righteousness. 

“I’ll take it here— if I must,” said Venters. “But, by God! 
—Tull, you’d better kill me outright. That ’ll be a dear whipping 
for you and your praying Mormons. You’ll make me another 
Lassiter!” 

The strange glow, the austere light which radiated from Tull’s 
face, might have been a holy joy at the spiritual conception of 
exalted duty. But there was something more in him, barely 
hidden, a something personal and sinister, a deep of himself, 
an engulfing abyss. As his religious mood was fanatical and 
inexorable, so would his physical hate be merciless. 

“Elder, I — I repent my words,” Jane faltered. The religion 
in her, the long habit of obedience, of humility, as well as agony 
of fear, spoke in her voice. “Spare the boy!” she whispered. 

“You can’t save him now,” replied Tull, stride^ly. 

Her head was bowing to the inevitable. She was grasping the 
truth, when suddenly there came, in inward constriction, a 
hardening of gentle forces within her breast. Like a steel bar 


LASSITER 


7 


it was, stiffening all that had been soft and weak in her. She 
felt a birth in her of something new and unintelligible. Once 
more her strained gaze sought the sage-slopes. Jane Withersteen 
loved that wild and purple wilderness. In times of sorrow it 
had been her strength, in happiness its beauty was her con- 
tinual delight. In her extremity she found herself murmuring, 
“Whence cometh my help!’’ It was a prayer, as if forth from 
those lonely purple reaches and walls of red and clefts of blue 
might ride a fearless man, neither breed-bound nor creed-mad, 
who would hold up a restraining hand in the faces of her ruthless 
people. 

The restless movements of Tull’s men suddenly quieted down. 
Then followed a low whisper, a rustle, a sharp exclamation. 

“Look!” said one, pointing to the west. 

“A rider!” 

Jane Withersteen wheeled and saw a horseman, silhouetted 
against the western sky, come riding out of the sage. He had 
ridden down from the left, in the golden glare of the sun, and 
had been unobserved till close at hand. An answer to her 
prayer! 

“Do you know him? Does any one know him?” questioned 
Tull, hurriedly. 

His men looked and looked, and one by one shook their 
heads. 

“He’s come from far,” said one. 

“Thet’s a fine hoss,” said another. 

“ A strange rider.” 

“Huh! he wears black leather,” added a fourth. 

With a wave of his hand, enjoining silence, Tull stepped 
forward in such a way that he concealed Venters. 

The rider reined in his mount, and with a lithe forward- 
slipping action appeared to reach the ground in one long step. 
It was a peculiar movement in its quickness and inasmuch 
2 


8 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

that while performing it the rider did not swerve in the 
slightest from a square front to the group before him. 

“Look!” hoarsely whispered one of Tull’s companions. 
“He packs two black-butted guns— low down— they’re hard 
to see — ^black agin them black chaps.” 

“A gun-man!” whispered another. “Fellers, careful now 
about movin’ your hands.” 

The stranger’s slow approach might have been a mere leisurely 
manner of gait or the cramped short steps of a rider unused to 
walking; yet, as well, it could have been the guarded advance 
of one who took no chances with men. 

“Hello, stranger!” called Tull. No welcome was in this 
greeting, only a gruff curiosity. 

The rider responded with a curt nod. The wide brim of a 
black sombrero cast a dark shade over his face. For a moment 
he closely regarded Tull and his comrades, and then, halting 
in his slow walk, he seemed to relax. 

“Evenin’, ma’am,” he said to Jane, and removed his som- 
brero with quaint grace. 

Jane, greeting him, looked up into a face that she trusted 
instinctively and which riveted her attention. It had all the 
characteristics of the range rider’s — the leanness, the red burn 
of the sun, and the set changelessness that came from years 
of silence and solitude. But it was not these that held her; 
rather the intensity of his gaze, a strained weariness, a piercing 
wistfulness of keen, gray sight, as if the man was forever look- 
ing for that which he never found. Jane’s subtle woman’s 
intuition, even in that brief instant, felt a sadness, a hungering, 
a secret. 

“Jane Withersteen, ma’am?” he inquired. 

“Yes,” she replied. 

“The water here is yours?” 

“Yes.” 


LASSITER 


9 


“May I water my horse?” 

“ Certainly. There’s the trough. ” 

“But mebbe if you knew who I was — ” He hesitated, with 
his glance on the listening men. “Mebbe you wouldn’t let me 
water him — though I ain’t askin’ none for myself. ” 

“Stranger, it doesn’t matter who you are. Water your 
horse. And if you are thirsty and hungry come into my 
house. ” 

“Thanks, ma’am. I can’t accept for myself — but for my 
tired horse — ” 

Trampling of hoofs interrupted the rider. More restless 
movements on the part of Tull’s men broke up the httle circle, 
exposing the prisoner Venters. 

“Mebbe I’ve kind of hindered somethin’ — for a few moments, 
perhaps?” inquired the rider. 

“Yes,” replied Jane Withersteen, with a throb in her voice. 

She felt the drawing power of his eyes; and then she saw 
him look at the bound Venters, and at the men who held him, 
and their leader. 

“In this here country all the rustlers an’ thieves an’ cut- 
throats an’ gun-throwers an’ all-round-no-good men jest happen 
to be Gentiles. Ma’am, which of the no-good class does that 
young feller belong to?” 

“He belongs to none of them. He’s an honest boy.” 

“You know that, ma’am?” 

“Yes— yes.” 

“Then what has he done to get tied up that way?” 

His clear and distinct question, meant for Tull as well as for 
Jane Withersteen, stilled the restlessness and brought a momen- 
tary silence. 

“Ask him,” replied Jane, her voice rising high. 

The rider stepped away from her, moving out with the same 
slow, measured stride in which he had approached; and the 


10 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

fact that his action placed her wholly to one side, and him no 
nearer to Tull and his men, had a penetrating significance. 

“Young feller, speak up,” he said to Venters. 

“Here, stranger, this ’s none of your mix, ” began Tull. “Don’t 
try any interference. You’ve been asked to drink and eat. 
That’s more than you’d have got in any other village on the 
Utah border. Water your horse and be on your way. ” 

“Easy — easy — I ain’t interferin’ yet,” replied the rider. 
The tone of his voice had undergone a change. A different 
man had spoken. Where, in addressing Jane, he had been mild 
and gentle, now, with his first speech to Tull, he was dry, cool, 
biting. “I’ve jest stumbled onto a queer deal. Seven Mor- 
mons all packin’ guns, an’ a Gentile tied with a rope, an’ a woman 
who swears by his honesty! Queer, ain’t that?” 

“Queer or not, it’s none of your business,” retorted Tull. 

“Where I was raised a woman’s word was law. I ain’t 
quite outgrowed yet. ” 

Tull fumed between amaze and anger. 

“Meddler, we have a law here something different from 
woman’s whim — Mormon law! . . . Take care you don’t trans- 
gress it. ” 

“To hell with your Mormon law!” 

The deliberate speech marked the rider’s further change, 
this time from kindly interest to awakening menace. It 
produced a transformation in Tull and his companions. The 
leader gasped and staggered backward at a blasphemous affront 
to an institution he held most sacred. The man Jerry, holding 
the horses, dropped the bridles and froze in his tracks. Like 
posts the other men stood, watchful-eyed, arms hanging rigid, 
all waiting. 

“Speak up now, young man. What have you done to be 
roped that way?” 

“It’s a damned outrage!” burst out Venters. “I’ve done 


LASSITER 11 

no wrong. I’ve offended this Mormon Elder by being a friend 
to that woman.” 

“Ma’am, is it true — what he says?” asked the rider of Jane; 
but his quiveringly alert eyes never left the little knot of quiet 
men. 

“True? Yes, perfectly true,” she answered. 

“Well, young man, it seems to me that bein’ a friend to such 
a woman would be what you wouldn’t want to help an’ couldn’t 
help. . . . What’s to be done to you for it?” 

“They intend to whip me. You know what that means — 
in Utah!” 

“I reckon,” replied the rider, slowly. 

With his gray glance cold on the Mormons, with the restive 
bit-champing of the horses, with Jane failing to repress her 
mounting agitation, with Venters standing pale and still, the 
tension of the moment tightened. Tull broke the spell with a 
laugh, a laugh without mirth, a laugh that was only a sound 
betraying fear. 

“Come on, men!” he called. 

Jane Withersteen turned again to the rider. 

“Stranger, can you do nothing to save Venters?” 

“Ma’am, you ask me to save him — from your own people?” 

“Ask you? I beg of you!” 

“But you don’t dream who you’re askin’.” 

“Oh, sir, I pray you — save him!” 

“These are Mormons, an’ I . . .” 

“At — ^at any cost — save him. For I — I care for him!” 

Tull snarled. “You love-sick fool! Tell your secrets. 
There ’ll be a way to teach you what you’ve never learned. . . . 
Come, men, out of here!” 

“Mormon, the young man stays,” said the rider. 

Like a shot his voice halted Tull. 

“What!” 


12 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


‘‘He stays.” 

“Who’ll keep him? He’s my prisoner!” cried Tull, hotly. 
“Stranger, again I tell you — don’t mix here. You’ve meddled 
enough. Go your way now or — ” 

“Listen! . . . He stays.” 

Absolute certainty, beyond any shadow of doubt, breathed 
in the rider’s low voice. 

“Who are you? We are seven here.” 

The rider dropped his sombrero and made a rapid movement, 
singular in that it left him somewhat crouched, arms bent and 
stiff, with the big black gun-sheaths swung round to the fore. 

Lassiter! 

It was Venters’s wondering, thrilling cry that bridged the 
fateful connection between the rider’s singular position and the 
dreaded name. 

Tull put out a groping hand. The life of his eyes dulled to 
the gloom with which men of his fear saw the approach of death. 
But death, while it hovered over him, did not descend, for the 
rider waited for the twitching fingers, the downward flash of 
hand that did not come. Tull, gathering himself together, 
turned to the horses, attended by his pale comrades. 


CHAPTER II 


COTTONWOODS 


ENTERS appeared too deeply moved to speak the grati- 



V tude his face expressed. And Jane turned upon the rescuer 
and gripped his hands. Her smiles and tears seemingly dazed 
him. Presently, as something like calmness returned, she went 
to Lassiter’s weary horse. 

“I will water him myself,” she said, and she led the horse 
to a trough under a huge old cottonwood. With nimble fingers 
she loosened the bridle and removed the bit. The horse snorted 
and bent his head. The trough was of solid stone, hollowed 
out, moss-covered and green and wet and cool, and the clear 
brown water that fed it spouted and splashed from a wooden 
pipe. 

‘‘He has brought you far to-day?” 

“Yes, ma’am, a matter of over sixty miles, mebbe seventy.” 

“A long ride — a ride that — Ah, he is blind!” 

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Lassiter. 

“What blinded him?” 

“Some men once roped an’ tied him, an’ then held white-hot 
iron close to his eyes. ” 

“ Oh ! Men? You mean devils Were they your enemies— 

Mormons?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“To take revenge on a horse! Lassiter, the men of my 
creed are unnaturally cruel. To my everlasting sorrow I confess 


14 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

it. They have been driven, hated, scourged till their hearts 
have hardened. But we women hope and pray for the time 
when our men will soften.’’ 

“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am — ^that time will never come.” 

“Oh, it will! . . . Lassiter, do you think Mormon women 
wicked? Has your hand been against them, too?” 

“No. I believe Mormon women are the best an’ noblest, 
the most long-sufferin’, an’ the blindest, unhappiest women 
on earth. ” 

“Ah!” She gave him a grave, thoughtful look. “Then you 
will break bread with me?” 

Lassiter had no ready response, and he uneasily shifted his 
weight from one leg to another, and turned his sombrero round 
and round in his hands. “Ma’am,” he began, presently, “I 
reckon your kindness of heart makes you overlook things. Per- 
haps I ain’t well known hereabouts, but back up North there’s 
Mormons who’d rest oneasy in their graves at the idea of me 
sittin’ to table with you. ” 

“I dare say. But — will you do it anyway?” she asked. 

“Mebbe you have a brother or relative who might drop in 
an’ be offended, an’ I wouldn’t want to — ” 

“I’ve not a relative in Utah that I know of. There’s no one 
with a right to question my actions.” She turned smilingly 
to Venters. “You will come in, Bern, and Lassiter will come 
in. We’ll eat and be merry while we may. ” 

“I’m only wonderin’ if Tull an’ his men ’ll raise a storm 
down in the village,” said Lassiter, in his last weakening stand. 

“Yes, he’ll raise the storm — after he has prayed,” replied 
Jane. “Come.” 

She led the way, with the bridle of Lassiter’s horse over her 
arm. They entered a grove and walked down a wide path 
shaded by great low-branching cottonwoods. The last rays 
of the setting sun sent golden bars through the leaves. The 


COTTONWOODS 


15 


grass was deep and ricli, welcome contrast to sage-tired eyes. 
Twittering quail darted across the path, and from a tree- top 
somewhere a robin sang its evening song, and on the still air 
floated the freshness and murmur of flowing water. 

The home of Jane Withersteen stood in a circle of cotton- 
woods, and was a flat, long, red-stone structure, with a covered 
court in the center through which flowed a lively stream of amber- 
colored water. In the massive blocks of stone and heavy timbers 
and solid doors and shutters showed the hand of a man who had 
builded against pillage and time; and in the flowers and mosses 
lining the stone-bedded stream, in the bright colors of rugs and 
blankets on the court floor, and the cozy corner with hammock 
and books, and the clean-linened table, showed the grace of a 
daughter who lived for happiness and the day at hand. 

Jane turned Lassiter’s horse loose in the thick grass. “You 
will want him to be near you,” she said, “or I’d have him taken 
to the alfalfa fields.” At her call appeared women who began 
at once to bustle about, hurrying to and fro, setting the table. 
Then Jane, excusing herself, went within. 

She passed through a huge low-ceiled chamber, like the inside 
of a fort, and into a smaller one where a bright wood-fire blazed 
in an old open fireplace, and from this into her own room. It 
had the same comfort as was manifested in the home-like outer 
court; moreover, it was warm and rich in soft hues. 

Seldom did Jane Withersteen enter her room without looking 
into her mirror. She knew she loved the reflection of that beauty 
which since early childhood she had never been allowed to forget. 
Her relatives and friends, and later a horde of Mormons and 
Gentile suitors, had fanned the flame of natural vanity in her. 
So that at twenty-eight she scarcely thought at all of her won- 
derful influence for good in the little community where her father 
had left her practically its beneficent landlord; but cared most 
for the dream and assurance and the allurement of her beauty. 


16 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

This time, however, she gazed into her glass with more than the 
usual happy motive, without the usual slight conscious smile. 
For she was thinking of more than the desire to be fair in her 
own eyes, in those of her friend; she wondered if she were to 
seem fair in the eyes of this Lassiter, this man whose name had 
crossed the long, wild brakes of stone and plains of sage, this 
gentle-voiced, sad-faced man who was a hater and a killer of 
Mormons. It was not now her usual half -conscious vain ob- 
session that actuated her as she hurriedly changed her riding- 
dress to one of white, and then looked long at the stately form 
with its gracious contours, at the fair face with its strong chin 
and full firm lips, at the dark-blue, proud, and passionate eyes. 

‘Tf by some means I can keep him here a few days, a week — 
he will never kill another Mormon,’’ she mused. ‘‘Lassiter! 
... I shudder when I think of that name, of him. But when I 
look at the man I forget who he is — I almost like him. I re- 
member only that he saved Bern. He has suffered. I wonder 
what it was — did he love a Mormon woman once.^ How 
splendidly he championed us poor misunderstood souls! Some- 
how he knows — much. ” 

Jane Withersteen joined her guests and bade them to her 
board. Dismissing her woman, she waited upon them with 
her own hands. It was a bountiful supper and a strange company. 
On her right sat the ragged and half-starved Venters; and though 
blind eyes could have seen what he counted for in the sum of 
her happiness, yet he looked the gloomy outcast his allegiance 
had made him, and about him there was the shadow of the ruin 
presaged by Tull. On her left sat the black - leather - garbed 
Lassiter looking like a man in a dream. Hunger was not with 
him, nor composure, nor speech, and when he twisted in frequent 
unquiet movements, the heavy guns that he had not removed 
knocked against the table-legs. If it had been otherwise possible 
to forget the presence of Lassiter those telling little jars would 


COTTONWOODS 


17 


have rendered it unlikely. And Jane Withersteen talked and 
smiled and laughed with all the dazzling play of lips and eyes 
that a beautiful, daring woman could summon to her purpose. 

When the meal ended, and the men pushed back their 
chairs, she leaned closer to Lassiter and looked square into 
his eyes. 

“Why did you come to Cottonwoods?” 

Her question seemed to break a spell. The rider arose as 
if he had just remembered himself and had tarried longer than 
his wont. 

“Ma’am, I have hunted all over southern Utah and Nevada 
for — somethin’. An’ through your name I learned where to 
find it — here in Cottonwoods. ” 

“My name! Oh, I remember. You did know my name 
when you spoke first. Well, tell me where you heard it and 
from whom?” 

“At the little village — Glaze, I think it’s called — ^some fifty 
miles or more west of here. An’ I heard it from a Gentile, a 
rider who said you’d know where to tell me to find — ” 

“What?” she demanded, imperiously, as Lassiter broke off. 

“Milly Erne’s grave,” he answered low, and the words 
came with a wrench. 

Venters wheeled in his chair to regard Lassiter in amaze- 
ment, and Jane slowly raised herself in white, still wonder. 

“Milly Erne’s grave?” she echoed, in a whisper. “What 
do you know of Milly Erne, my best-beloved friend — who died 
in my arms? What were you to her?” 

“Did I claim to be anythin’?” he inquired. “I know people 
— relatives — who have long wanted to know where she’s buried. 
That’s all.” 

“Relatives? She never spoke of relatives, except a brother 
who was shot in Texas. Lassiter, Milly Erne’s grave is in a 
secret burying-ground on my property. ” 


18 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


“Will you take me there? . . . You’ll be offendin’ Mormons 
worse than by breakin’ bread with me.” 

“Indeed yes, but I’ll do it. Only we must go unseen. To- 
morrow, perhaps. ” 

“Thank you, Jane Withersteen, ” replied the rider, and he 
bowed to her and stepped backward out of the court. 

“Will you not stay — sleep under my roof?” she asked. 

“No, ma’am, an’ thanks again. I never sleep indoors. 
An’ even if I did there’s that gatherin’ storm in the village below. 
No, no. I’ll go to the sage. J hope you won’t suffer none for 
your kindness to me. ” 

“Lassiter,” said Venters, with a half-bitten laugh, “my bed, 
too, is the sage. Perhaps we may meet out there. ” 

“Mebbeso. But the sage is wide an’ I won’t be near. Good 
night.” 

At Lassiter’s low whistle the black horse whinnied, and 
carefully picked his blind way out of the grove. The rider did 
not bridle him, but walked beside him, leading him by touch of 
hand, and together they passed slowly into the shade of the 
cottonwoods. 

“Jane, I must be off soon,” said Venters. “Give me my 
guns. If I’d had my guns — 

“Either my friend or the Elder of my church would be lying 
dead,” she interposed. 

“Tull would be — surely.” 

“Oh, you fierce-blooded, savage youth! Can’t I teach you 
forbearance, mercy? Bern, it’s divine to forgive your enemies. 
‘Let not the sun go down upon thy wrath.’” 

“Hush! Talk to me no more of mercy or religion — after 
to-day. To-day this strange coming of Lassiter left me still a 
man, and now I’ll die a man ! . . . Give me my guns. ” 

Silently she went into the house to return with a heavy car- 
tridge-belt and gun-filled sheath and a long rifle; these she handed 


COTTONWOODS 19 

to him, and as he buckled on the belt she stood before him in 
silent eloquence. 

“Jane,” he said, in gentler voice, “don’t look so. I’m 
not going out to murder your churchman. I’ll try to avoid him 
and all his men. But can t you see I’ve reached the end of my 
rope? Jane, you re a wonderful woman. Never was there a 
woman so unselfish and good. Only you’re blind in one way. . . . 
Listen ! ” 

From behind the grove came the clicking sound of horses 
in a rapid trot. 

“Some of your riders,” he continued. “It’s getting time 
for the night shift. Let us go out to the bench in the grove and 
talk there.” 

It was still daylight in the open, but under the spreading 
cottonwoods shadows were obscuring the lanes. Venters drew 
Jane off from one of these into a shrub -lined trail, just wide enough 
for the two to walk abreast, and in a roundabout way led her far 
from the house to a knoll on the edge of the grove. Here in 
a secluded nook was a bench from which, through an opening 
in the tree-tops, could be seen the sage-slope and the wall of 
rock and the dim lines of canons. Jane had not spoken since 
Venters had shocked her with his first harsh speech; but all the 
way she had clung to his arm, and now, as he stopped and laid 
his rifle against the bench, she still clung to him. 

“Jane, I’m afraid I must leave you. ” 

“Bern!” she cried. 

**Yes, it looks that way. My position is not a happy one — 
I can’t feel right — I’ve lost all — ” 

“I’ll give you anything you — ” 

“Listen, please. When I say loss I don’t mean what you 
think. I mean loss of good-will, good name — that which would 
have enabled me to stand up in this village without bitterness. 
Well, it’s too late. . . . Now, as to the future, I think you’d do 


20 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


best to give me up. Tull is implacable. You ought to see 
from his intention to-day that — but you can’t see. Your blind- 
ness — ^your damned religion! . . . Jane, forgive me — I’m sore 
within and something rankles. Well, I fear that invisible hand 
will turn its hidden work to your ruin. ” 

“ Invisible hand ? Bern ! ” 

‘T mean your Bishop.” Venters said it deliberately and 
would not release her as she started back. “He’s the law. 
The edict went forth to ruin me. Well, look at me! It ’ll now 
go forth to compel you to the will' of the Church. ” 

“You wrong Bishop Dyer. Tull is hard, I know. But 
then he has been in love with me for years. ” 

“Oh, your faith and your excuses! You can’t see what I 
know — and if you did see it you’d not admit it to save your life. 
That’s the Mormon of you. These elders and Bishops will do 
absolutely any deed to go on building up the power and wealth 
of their church, their empire. Think of what they’ve done to 
the Gentiles here, to me — think of Milly Erne’s fate!” 

“What do you know of her story 

“I know enough — all, perhaps, except the name of the 
Mormon who brought her here. But I must stop this kind 
of talk.” 

She pressed his hand in response. He helped her to a seat 
beside him on the bench. And he respected a silence that he 
divined was full of woman’s deep emotion, beyond his under- 
standing. 

It was the moment when the last ruddy rays of the sunset 
brightened momentarily before yielding to twilight. And for 
Venters the outlook before him was in some sense similar to a 
feeling of his future, and with searching eyes he studied the 
beautiful purple, barren waste of sage. Here was the unknown 
and the perilous. The whole scene impressed Venters as a wild, 
austere, and mighty manifestation of nature. And as it some- 


COTTONWOODS 21 

how reminded him of his prospect in life, so it suddenly resembled 
the woman near him; only in her there were greater beauty and 
peril, a mystery more unsol vable, and something nameless that 
numbed his heart and dimmed his eyes. 

Look! A rider!’’ exclaimed Jane, breaking the silence. 
“Can that be Lassiter 

Venters moved his glance once more to the west. A horseman 
showed dark on the sky-line, then merged into the color of the 
sage. 

“It might be. But I think not — that fellow was coming in. 
One of your riders, more likely. Yes, I see him clearly now. 
And there’s another. ” 

“I see them, too.” 

“Jane, your riders seem as many as the bunches of sage. 
I ran into five yesterday way down near the trail to Deception 
Pass. They were with the white herd. ” 

“You still go to that canon? Bern, I wish you wouldn’t. 
Oldring and his rustlers live somewhere down there. ” 

“Well, what of that?” 

“Tull has already hinted of your frequent trips into Decep- 
tion Pass. ” 

“I know.” Venters uttered a short laugh. “He’ll make 
a rustler of me next. But, Jane, there’s no water for fifty 
miles after I leave here, and that nearest is in the canon. I 
must drink and water my horse. There! I see more riders. 
They are going out. ” 

“The red herd is on the slope, toward the Pass.” 

Twilight was fast falling. A group of horsemen crossed 
the dark line of low ground to become more distinct as they 
climbed the slope. The silence broke to a clear call from an 
incoming rider, and, dlmost like the peal of a hunting-horn, 
floated back the answer. The outgoing riders moved swiftly, 
came sharply into sight as they topped a ridge to show wild 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


22 

and black above the horizon, and then passed down, dimming 
into the purple of the sage. 

‘T hope they don’t meet Lassiter,” said Jane. 

“So do I,” replied Venters. “By this time the riders of the 
night shift know what happened to-day. But Lassiter will 
likely keep out of their way. ” 

“Bern, who is Lassiter? He’s only a name to me — a terrible 
name. ” 

“Who is he? I don’t know, Jane. Nobody I ever met 
knows him. He talks a little like a Texan, like Milly Erne. 
Did you note that? ” 

“Yes. How strange of him to know of her! And she lived 
here ten years and has been dead two. Bern, what do you know 
of Lassiter? Tell me what he has done — why you spoke of him 
to Tull — threatening to become another Lassiter yourself?” 

“Jane, I only heard things, rumors, stories, most of which 
I disbelieved. At Glaze his name was known, but none of 
the riders or ranchers I knew there ever met him. At Stone 
Bridge I never heard him mentioned. But at Sterling and 
villages north of there he was spoken of often. I’ve never been 
in a village which he had been known to visit. There were many 
conflicting stories about him and his doings. Some said he had 
shot up this and that Mormon village, and others denied it. 
I’m inclined to believe he has, and you know how Mormons 
hide the truth. But there was one feature about Lassiter upon 
which all agree — that he was what riders in this country call a 
gun-man. He’s a man with marvelous quickness and accuracy 
in the use of a Colt. And now that I’ve seen him I know more. 
Lassiter was born without fear. I watched him with eyes which 
saw him my friend. I’ll never forget the moment I recognized 
him from what had been told me of his crouch before the draw. 
It was then I yelled his name. I believe that yell saved Tull’s 
life. At any rate, I know this, between Tull and death then 


COTTONWOODS 23 

there was not the breadth of the littlest hair. If he or any of his 
men had moved a finger downward ...” 

Venters left his meaning unspoken, but at the suggestion 
Jane shuddered. 

The pale afterglow in the west darkened with the merging 
of twilight into night. The sage now spread out black and 
gloomy. One dim star glimmered in the southwest sky. 
The sound of trotting horses had ceased, and there was silence 
broken only by faint, dry pattering of cottonwood leaves in the 
soft night wind. 

Into this peace and calm suddenly broke the high-keyed 
yelp of a coyote, and from far off in the darkness came the faint 
answering note of a trailing mate. 

‘‘Hello, the sage-dogs are barking, ” said Venters. 

“I don’t like to hear them,” replied Jane. “At night, some- 
times, when I lie awake, listening to the long mourn or breaking 
bark or wild howl, I think of you asleep somewhere in the sage, 
and my heart aches. ” 

“Jane, you couldn’t listen to sweeter music, nor could I 
have a better bed. ” 

“Just think! Men like Lassiter and you have no home, no 
rest, no place to lay your weary heads. Well! . . . Let us be 
patient. Tull’s ange^ may cool, and time may help us. You 
might 4-9 can tell? Suppose 

'the longjijnknpwn hiding 

, 4 i^band, and toldjt |q futfs 

ugly hints;^and.3^^ For; yeafs^my rider’s have 

trailed theTracks of stolen c^tle. You know a^woH i^s I how 
dearly we’ve paid for our ranges in, this wild country. Oldring 
drives our cattle down into that network of deceiving canons, 
and somewhere far to the north or east he drives them up and 
out to Utah markets. If you will spend time in Deception Pass 
try to find the trails. ” 


24 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

“Jane, I’ve thought of that. I’ll try. ’’ 

_“I must go now. And it hurts, for now I’ll never be sure of 
seeing you again. But to-morrow, Bern.? ’’ 

To-morrow surety. I’ll watch for Lassiter and ride in with 
him. ” 

j “Goodnight.” 

! Then she left him and moved away, a white, gliding shape 
that soon vanished in the shadows. 

Venters waited until the faint slam of a door assured him she 
had reached the house; and then, taking up his rifle, he noise- 
lessly slipped through the bushes, down the knoll, and on under 
the dark trees to the edge of the grove. The sky was now turning 
from gray to blue; stars had begun to lighten the earlier blackness; 
and from the wide flat sweep before him blew a cool wind, fragrant 
with the breath of sage. Keeping close to the edge of the cotton- 
woods, he went swiftly and silently westward. The grove was 
long, and he had not reached the end when he heard something 
that brought him to a halt. Low padded thuds told him horses 
were coming his way. He sank down in the gloom, waiting, 
listening. Much before he had expected, judging from sound, to 
his amazement he descried horsemen near at hand. They were 
riding along the border of the sage, and instantly he knew the 
hoofs of the horses were muffled. Then the pale starlight af- 
forded him indistinct sight of the riders. But his eyes were keen 
and used to the dark, and by peering closely he recognized the 
huge bulk and black-bearded visage of Oldring and the lithe, 
supple form of the rustler’s lieutenant, a masked rider. They 
passed on; the darkness swallowed them. Then, farther out on 
the sage, a dark, compact body of horsemen went by, almost with- 
out sound, almost like specters, and they, too, melted into the 
night. 


CHAPTER m 


AMBER SPRING 

N O unusual circumstance was it for Oldring and some of 
his men to visit Cottonwoods in the broad light of day; but 
for him to prowl about in the dark with the hoofs of his horses 
muffled meant that mischief was brewing. Moreover, to Venters 
the presence of the masked rider with Oldring seemed especially 
ominous. For about this man there was mystery; he seldom 
rode through the village; and when he did ride through it was 
swiftly; riders seldom met him by day on the sage; but wherever 
he rode there always followed deeds as dark and mysterious as 
the mask he wore. Oldring’s band did not confine themselves 
to the rustling of cattle. 

Venters lay low in the shade of the cottonwoods, pondering 
this chance meeting, and not for many moments did he con- 
sider it safe to move on. Then, with sudden impulse, he turned 
the other way and went back along the grove. When he reached 
the path leading to Jane’s home he decided to go down to the 
village. So he hurried onward, with quick, soft steps. Once 
beyond the grove he entered the one and only street. It was 
wide, lined with tall poplars, and under each row of trees, inside 
the foot-path, were ditches where ran the water from Jane 
Withersteen’s spring. 

Between the trees twinkled ligkts of cottage candles, and far 
down flared bright windows of the village stores. When Venters 
got closer to these he saw knots of men standing together in 


26 


EIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


earnest conversation. The usual lounging on the corners and 
benches and steps was not in evidence. Raping in the shadow. 
Venters went closer and closer untiL his could hear voices. But 
he could not distinguish said. He recognised many 

Mormons, and looked h^;]^;^Oi? Tull and his men, but looked in 
vain. Venters conel^M'ffiat the rustlers had not passed along 
the village street- ^^p'vioubt these earnest men were discussing 
Lassiter’s comri^|>;’‘%ut Venters felt positive that Tull’s intention 
toward hiuisdl Aat day had not been and would not be revealed. 

So Vei^t^S, seeing there was little for him to learn, began re- 
tracing J^^fstep^; The church was dark. Bishop Dyer’s home 
nextvt^^^ was also dark, and likewise Tull’s cottage.' Upon 
almosf an^ night at this hour there would be lights herey and 
Vj^Lers marked the unusual omission. ^ 

* As he was about to pass out of the str^t to skirt the 
he once more slunk down at the sound of j^olting horses^'"' Pres- 
ently he discried two mounted men ^rMmg toward' him. He 
hugged the shadow of a tree- A'gmn t^^^ staiHight, brighter 
now, aided him, and he rriade put Tull’s stalwart figure, and be- 
side him the short, frog-like ^dipe of the rider Jerry. They were 
silent, and they rode on tp disappear. 

Venters went his way with’ busy, gloomy mind, revolving 
events of the day^t^mg those brooding in the night. 

His thoughts ov^'^hejl^ed him. Up in that dark grove dwelt 
a woman who h^ t)p^n his friend. And he skulked about her 
home, gripping a»! fiin stealthily as an Indian, a man without 
place or pepple.^r purpose. Above her hovered the shadov of 
grim, hidden, secret power. No queen could have given mj>re 
royally out of a bounteous store than Jane Withersteen gave her 
people, and likewise to those unfortunates whom her people 
hated. She asked only the divine right of all women — freedom; 
to love and to live as her heart willed. And her prayer and her 
hope were vain. 


AMBER SPRING £7 

“For years I’ve seen a storm clouding her and the village of 
Cottonwoods,” muttered Venters, as he strode on. “Soon it ’ll 
burst. I don t like the prospect. ” That night the villagers 
whispered in the street— and night-rid^ horses 

—and Tull was atj^b M'klcreT— and the sage hid a 

man who meant something terribl^liassiter! 

^ Venters passed the black cottonwppds, and, entering the sage, 
climbed the gradual slo^j^^p^jsS^Sept his direction in line with a 
westerfi^JgT^^.,^^^rt to time he stopped to listen and hedrd 
only the n^pif^faniili^y. of wind and 

rustlpjt^f sa^v.‘^‘<?Presently a low jumble of rocks^^Ic^^ed up 

turning that way, he whistled 
.«#S^s6ttfy. Out of the rocks glided a dog that leaped and whined 
about him. He climbed over rough, broken rock, picking his 
way carefully,^ and then went down. Here it was darker, 
and sheltered fronT Thp^^n^l^^g^l^^^aed^ It 
was another Was asleep, curled up between a 

saddle and^-a i^ awoke" andTht^^ his tail in 

placed the saddle fpr a pillow, rolled in his 
.^^^.djlankets, with his face upwa^^the stars. The white dog 
snuggled close to him*.. The 'other whined and pattered a few 
yards to thp^rise'bf ground and there crouched pn guard. And 
in that covert Venters shut in his eyes under the great white 
stars and intense vaulted blue, bitterly comparing their loneliness 
to his own, and fell asleep. 

When he awoke, day had dawned, and all about him was 
bright and steel-gray. The air had a cold tang. Arising, he 
greeted the fawning dogs and stretched his cramped body, and 
then, gathering together bunches of dead sage sticks, he lighted 
a fire. Strips of dried beef held to the blaze for a moment served 
him and the dogs. He drank from a canteen. There was nothing 
else in his outfit; he had grown used to a 

sat over the fire, palms outspread, and waited. Waiting had-^ 


28 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

been his chief occupation for months, and he scarcely knew what 
he waited for, unless it was the passing of the hours. But now 
he sensed action in the immediate present; the day promised 
another meeting with Lassiter and Jane, perhaps news of the 
rustlers; on the morrow he meant to take the trail to Deception 
Pass. 

And while he waited he talked to his dogs. He called them 
Ring and Whitie; they were sheep-dogs, half collie, haK deer- 
hound, superb in build, perfectly trained. It seemed that in 
his fallen fortunes these dogs understood the nature of their value 
to him, and governed their affection and faithfulness accordingly. 
Whitie watched him with somber eyes of love, and Ring, crouched 
on the little rise of ground above, kept tireless guard. When the 
sun rose, the white dog took the place of the other, and Ring went 
to sleep at his master’s feet. 

By-and-by Venters rolled up his blankets and tied them and 
his meager pack together, then climbed out to look for his horse. 
He saw him, presently, a little way off in the sage, and went to 
fetch him. In that country, where every rider boasted of a fine 
mount and was eager for a race, where thoroughbreds dotted the 
wonderful grazing ranges. Venters rode a horse thaJt sad proof 
of his misfortunes. , 

Then, with his back against a stone, Venl^ri^ faced the east, 
and, stick in hand and idle blade, he waited. The glorious sunlight 
filled the valley with purple fire. Before ’him, to left, to right, 
waving, rolling, sinking, rising, ^ike low swells of a purple sea, 
stretched the sage. Out of grdve of cottonwoods, a green 
patch on the purple, gleam;ed the dull red of Jane Withersteen’s 
old stone house. And fr^ there extended the wide green of the 
village gardens and orchards' marked by the graceful poplars; and 
farther down shone the dfeep, dark richness of the alfalfa fields. 
Numberless red and black and white dots speckled the sage, 
and these were cattle and horses. 


AMBER SPRING 


29 


So, watching and waiting, Venters let the time wear away. 
At length he saw a horse rise above a ridge, and he knew it to be 
Lassiter’s black. Climbing to the highest rock, so that he would 
show against the sky-line, he stood and waved his hat. The 
almost instant turning of Lassiter’s horse attested to the quick- 
ness of that rider’s eye. Then Venters climbed down, saddled 
his horse, tied on his pack, and, with a word to his dogs, was 
about to ride out to meet Lassiter, when he concluded to wait for 
him there, on higher ground, where the outlook was commanding. 

It had been long since Venters had experienced friendly 
greeting from a man. Lassiter’s warmed in him something that 
had grown cold from neglect. And when he had returned it, 
with a strong grip of the iron hand that held his, and met the 
gray eyes, he knew that Lassiter and he were to be friends. 

“Venters, let’s talk awhile before we go down there,” said 
Lassiter, slipping his bridle. “I ain’t in no hurry. Them’s 
sure fine dogs you’ve got.” With a rider’s eye he took in the 
points of Venters’s horse, but did not speak his thought. “Well, 
did anythin’ come off after I left you last night?” 

Venters told him about the rustlers. 

“I was snug hid in the sage,” replied Lassiter, “an’ didn’t 
see or hear no one. Oldrin’s got a high hand here, I reckon. It’s 
no news up in Utah how he holes in canons an’ leaves no track. ” 
Lassiter was silent a moment. “Me an’ Oldrin’ wasn’t exactly 
strangers some years back when he drove cattle into Bostil s 
Ford, at the head of the Rio Virgin. But he got harassed there 
an’ now he drives some place else. ” 

“Lassiter, you knew him? Tell me, is he Mormon or 
Gentile?” 

“I can’t say. I’ve knowed Mormons who pretended to be 
Gentiles.” 

“No Mormon ever pretended that unless he was a rustler,” 
declared Venters. 


30 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


^‘Mebbeso.” 

“It’s a hard country for any one, but hardest for Gentiles. 
Did you ever know or hear of a Gentile prospering in a Mormon 
community?” 

“I never did.” 

“Well, I want to get out of Utah. I’ve a mother living in 
Illinois. I want to go home. It’s eight years now. ” 

The older man’s sympathy moved Venters to tell his story. 
He had left Quincy, run off to seek his fortune in the gold fields, 
had never gotten any farther than Salt Lake City, wandered here 
and there as helper, teamster, shepherd, and drifted southward 
over the divide and across the barrens and up the rugged plateau 
through the passes to the last border settlements. Here he be- 
came a rider of the sage, had stock of his own, and for a time 
prospered, until chance threw him in the employ of Jane Wither- 
steen. 

“Lassiter, I needn’t tell you the rest.” 

“Well, it ’d be no news to me. I know Mormons. I’ve seen 
their women’s strange love an’ patience an’ sacrifice an’ silence 
an’ what I call madness for their idea of God. An’ over against 
that I’ve seen the tricks of the men. They work hand in hand, 
all together, an’ in the dark. No man can hold out against them, 
unless he takes to packin’ guns. For Mormons are slow to kill. 
That’s the only good I eyer seen in their religion. Venters, take 
this from me, these M^r^iions ain’t just right in their minds. 
Else could a Mormon n^rry one woman when he already had a 
wife, an’ call it duty?” 

“Lassiter, you think as I think,” returned Venters. ' 

“How ’d come then that you never^rowed a guii bn Tull or 
some of them?” inquired The rider^^cbriously. 

“Jane pleaded with me,"be^^ me to bq-patient, to overlook. 
She even took my guns from me. I Ipst all before I knew it,” 
replied Venters, with the red color in his face. “But, Lassiter, 


AMBER SPRING 31 

listen. Out of the wreck I saved a Winchester, two Colts, 
and plenty of shells. I packed these down into Deception Pass. 
There, almost every day for six months, I have practised with 
my rifle till the barrel burned my hands. Practised the draw — 
firing of a Colt, hour after hour!” 

“Now that’s interestin’ to me,” said Lassiter, with a quick 
Uplift of his head and a concentration of his gray gaze on Venters. 
“Could you throw a gun before you began that practisin’.?” 

“Yes. And now. ...” Venters made a lightning-swift move- 
ment. 

Lassiter smiled, and then his bronzed eyelids narrowed till 
his eyes seemed mere gray slits. “You’ll kill Tull!” He did 
not question; he affirmed. 

“I promised Jane Withersteen I’d try to avoid Tull. I’ll 
keep my word. But sooner or later Tull and I will meet. As 
I feel now, if he even looks at me I’ll draw!” 

“I reckon so. There ’ll be hell down there, presently.” He 
paused a moment and flicked a sage-brush with his quirt. 
“Venters, seein’ as you’re considerable worked up, tell me Milly 
Erne’s story. ” 

Venters’s agitation stilled to the trace of suppressed eager- 
ness in Lassiter’s query. 

“Milly Erne’s story.? Well, Lassiter, I’ll tell you what I 
know. Milly Erne had been in Cottonwoods years when I flrst 
arrived there, and most of what I telh you happened before my 
arrival. I got to know her pretty well. She was a slip of a 
woman, and crazy on religion. I conceived an ide^’ that I never 
mentioned — I thought she was at heart more Gentile than Mor- 
mon. But she passed as a Mormon, and certainly she had the 
Mormon woman’s locked lips. You know, in every Mormon 
village there are women who seem mysterious to us, but about 
Milly there tv as more than the ordinary mystery. When she 
came to Cottonwoods she had a beautiful little girl whom she 


32 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

loved passionately. Milly was not known openly in Cottonwoods 

as a Mormon wife. That she really was a Mormon wife I have no 

doubt. Perhaps the Mormon’s other wife or wives would not ac- 
knowledge Milly Such things happen m these villages. Torino 
wives wL yokes, hut they get jealous. Well, 
brought Milly to this country— love or madness of religion she 

repeated of it. She gave up teaching the village school. She qmt 

the church. And she began to fight Mormon upbringing for her 
baby girl. Then the Mormons put on the screws— slowly as 
is their way. At last the child disappeared. Lost, was the re- 
port. The chUd was stolen, I know that. So do you. That 
peeked Milly Erne. But she lived on in hope. She became 
a slave. She^worked her heart and soul and fife out to get back 
her child. She never heard of it again. Then she sa^. ... I 
can see her now, a frail thing, so transparent you could almost 
look through hei— white like ashes-and her eyes, . . . Her ^y^ 
have always haunted me. She had one real friend^Jane Wither- 
steen. But Jane couldn’t mend a broken heart, and MiUy died. 
For moments Lassiter did not speak, or turn his head. 

“The man!” he exclaimed, presently, in husky accents. 

“I haven’t the slightest idea who the Mormon was, replied 
Venters; ‘‘nor has any Gentile in Cottonwoods. 

“Does Jane Withersteen know?” 

“Yes. But a red-hot running-iron couldn t burn that name 

Without further speech Lassiter started off, walking Ins 
horse and Venters followed with his dogs. Half a mile down the 
slope they entered a luxuriant growth of willows, and soon came 
into an open space carpeted with grass like deep green velvet. 
The rushing of water and singing of birds filled their ears. Ven- 
ters led his comrade to a shady bower and showed him Amber 
Spring. It was a magnificent outburst of clear, amber water 
pouring from a dark, stone-lined hole. Lassiter knelt and drank, 


AMBER SPRING 


33 


lingered there to drink again. He made no comment, but 
Venters did not need words. Next to his horse a rider of the sage 
loved a spring. And this spring was the most beautiful and re- 
markable known to the upland riders of Southern Utah. It 
was the spring that made old Withersteen a feudal lord and now 
enabled his daughter to return the toll which her father had 
exacted from the toilers of the sage. 

The spring gushed forth in a swirling torrent, and leaped 
down joyously to make its swift way along a willow-skirted 
channel. Moss and fern and lilies overhung its green banks. 
Except for the rough-hewn stones that held and directed the 
water, tliis willow thicket and glade had been left as natme had 
made it. 

Below were artificial lakes, three in number, one above the 
other in banks of raised earth; and round about them rose the lofty 
green-foliaged shafts of poplar- trees. Ducks dotted the grassy 
surface of the lakes; a blue heron stood motionless on a water- 
gate; kingfishers darted with shrieking flight along the shady 
banks; a white hawk sailed above; and from the trees and shrubs 
came the song of robins and cat-birds. It was all in strange 
contrast to the endless slopes of lonely sage and the wild rock 
environs beyond. Venters thought of the woman who loved 
the birds and the green of the leaves and the murmur of water. 

Next on the slope, just below the third and largest lake, were 
corrals and a wide stone barn and open sheds and coops and pens. 
Here were clouds of dust, and cracking sounds of hoofs, and 
romping colts and hee-hawing burros. Neighing horses trampled 
to the corral fences. And from the little windows of the barn 
projected bobbing heads of bays and blacks and sorrels. When 
the two men entered the immense barnyard, from all around the 
din increased. This welcome, however, was not seconded by the 
several men and boys who vanished on sight. 

Venters and Liassiter were turning toward the house wheu 


34 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

Jane appeared in the lane leading a horse. In ridmg-skirt and 
blouse she seemed to have lost some of her statuesque proportions, 
and looked more like a girl-rider than the mistress of Withersteen. 
She was bright, smiling, and her greeting was warmly cordial. 

“Good news,” she announced. “I’ve been to the village. 
All is quiet. I expected— I don’t know what. But there’s no 
excitement. And Tull has ridden out on his way to Glaze. 

“Tull gone.?” inquired Venters, with surprise. He was won- 
dering what could have taken Tull away. Was it to avoid another 
meeting with Lassiter that he went? Could it have any connec- 
tion with the probable nearness of Oldring and his gang?^ 

“Gone, yes, thank goodness,” replied Jane. “Now I’ll have 
peace for a while. Lassiter, I want you to see my horses. You 
are a rider, and you must be a judge of horseflesh. Some of 
mine have Arabian blood. My father got his best strain in 
Nevada from Indians who claimed their horses were bred down 
from the original stock left by the Spaniards. 

“Well, ma’am, the one you’ve been ridin’ takes my eye, 
said Lassiter, as he walked round the racy, clean-limbed, and 

fine-pointed roan. ^ <« t j 

“Where are the boys?” she asked, looking about. Jerd, 
Paul, where are you? Here, bring out the horses.” 

The sound of dropping bars inside the bam was the signal 
for the horses to jerk their heads in the windows, to snort and 
stamp. Then they came pounding out of the door, a file of 
thoroughbreds, to plunge about the barnyard, heads and tails 
up, manes flying. They halted afar off, squared away to look, 
came slowly forward with whinnies for their mistress, and doubtful 
snorts for the strangers and their horses. 

*’Come — come — come,” called Jane, holding out her hands. 
“Why, Bells— Wrangle, where are your manners? Come, Black 
Star— come. Night. Ah, you beauties! My racers of the sage!” 
Only two came up to her; those she called Night and Black 


AMBER SPRING 35 

Star. Venters never looked at them without delight. The first 
was soft dead black, the other glittering black, and they were 
perfectly matched in size, both being high and long-bodied, wide 
through the shoulders, with lithe, powerful legs. That they 
were a woman’s pets showed in the gloss of skin, the fineness of 
mane. It showed, too, m the light of big eyes and the gentle 
reach of eagerness. 

‘I never seen their like,” was Lassiter’s encomium, “an’ in 
my day Ive s^n a sight of horses. Now, ma’am, if you was 

dopl^”*” ^ sage— say to 

Lassiter ended there with dry humor, yet behind that was 
meaning. Jane blushed and made arch eyes at him. 

“Take care, Lassiter, I might think that a proposal,” she 
replied, gaily. “It’s dangerous to propose elopement to a Mor- 
mon woman. Well, I was expecting you. Now will be a good 
hour to show you Milly Erne’s grave. The day-riders have gone 
Tfwt ®ern, what do you make 

“ « w 1, ^ ^ ^ “ade worry.” 

Well, It’s not usual for the night shift to ride in so late,” replied 
Venters, slowly, and his glance sought Lassiter’s. “Cattle are 
usually quiet after dark. Still I’ve known even a coyote to 
stampede your white herd.” 

“I refuse to borrow trouble. Come,” said Jane. 

They mounted, and, with Jane in the lead, rode down the 
lane, and, turning off in a cattle trail, proceeded westward. 
Venters’s dogs trotted behind them. On this side of the ranch 
the outlook was different from that on the other; the immediate 
foreground was rough and the sage more rugged and less colorful; 
there were no dark-blue lines of canons to hold the eye, nor any 
uprearing rock walls. It was a long roll and slope into gray 
obscurity. Soon Jane left the trail and rode into the sage, and 
presently she dismounted and threw her bridle. The men did 


36 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

likewise. Then, on foot, they followed her, coming out at length 
on the rim of a low escarpment. She passed by several little 
ridges of earth to halt before a faintly defined mound. It lay 
in the shade of a sweeping sage-brush close to the edge of the 
promontory; and a rider could have jumped his horse over it 
without recognizing a grave. 

“Here!” 

She looked sad as she spoke, but she offered no explanation 
for the neglect of an unmarked, uncared-for grave. There was a 
little bunch of pale, sweet lavender daisies, doubtless planted 
there by Jane. 

“I only come here to remember and to pray,” she said. “But 
I leave no trail!” 

A grave in the sage! How lonely this resting-place of Milly 
Erne! The cottonwoods or the alfalfa fields were not in sight, 
nor was there any rock or ridge or cedar to lend contrast to the 
monotony. Gray slopes, tingeing the purple, barren and wild, 
with the wind waving the sage, swept away to the dim horizon. 

Lassiter looked at the grave and then out into space. At that 
moment he seemed a figure of bronze. 

Jane touched Venters’s arm and led him back to the horses. 

“ Bern ! ” cried Jane, when they were out of hearing. “ Suppose 
Lassiter were Milly ’s husband — the father of that little girl lost 
so long ago!” 

“It might be, Jane. Let us ride on. If he wants to see us 
again he’ll come.” 

So they mounted and rode out to the cattle trail and began 
to climb. From the height of the ridge, where they had started 
down. Venters looked back. He did not see Lassiter, but his 
glance, drawn irresistibly farther out on the gradual slope, 
caught sight of a moving cloud of dust. 

“Hello, a rider!” 

“Yes, I see,” said Jane. 


AMBER SPRING 


37 

“That fellow’s riding hard. Jane, there’s something wrong.” 

“Oh, yes, there must be. . . . How he rides!” 

The horse disappeared in the sage, and then puffs of dust 
marked his course. 

“He’s short-cut on us — he’s making straight for the corrals.” 

Venters and Jane galloped their steeds and reined in at the 
turning of the lane. This lane led down to the right of the grove. 
Suddenly into its lower entrance flashed a bay horse. Then 
Venters caught the fast rhythmic beat of pounding hoofs. Soon 
his keen eye recognized the swing of the rider in his saddle. 

“It’s Judkins, your Gentile rider!” he cried. “Jane, when 
Judkins rides like that it means hell!” 


CHAPTER IV 

DECEPTION PASS 

T he rider thundered up and almost threw his foam-flecked 
horse in the sudden stop. He was of giant form, and with 

fearless eyes. . , «r>i. 

“Judkins, you’re all bloody!” cried Jane, m affright. Un, 

you Ve been shot !” ^ ^ 

“Nothin’ much, Miss Withersteen. I got a nick in the 
shoulder. I’m some wet an’ the boss’s been throwin’ lather, so 
all this ain’t blood.” 

“What’s up?” queried Venters, sharply. 

Rustlers sloped off with the red herd.” 

“Where are my riders?” demanded Jane. 

“Miss Withersteen, I was alone all night with the herd. At 
daylight this mornin’ the rustlers rode down. They began to 
shoot at me on sight. They chased me hard an’ far, burnin’ 
powder all the time, but I got away. 

“Jud, they meant to kill you,” declared Venters. 

“Now I wonder,” returned Judkins. “They wanted me bad. 
An’ it ain’t regular for rustlers to waste time chasin’ one rider.” 

“Thank Heaven you got away,” said Jane. “But my riders 
— ^where are they ? ” 

“I don’t know. The night-riders weren’t there last night 
when I rode down, an’ this mornin I met no day-riders. 

“Judkins! Bern, they’ve been set upon— killed by Oldring’s 
men!” 


DECEPTION PASS 39 

“I don’t think so,” replied Venters, decidedly. “Jane, your 
riders haven’t gone out in the sage.” 

Bern, what do you mean? ” Jane Withersteen turned deathly 

pale. 

“You remember what I said about the unseen hand.^” 

“Oh! . . . Impossible!” 

“I hope so. But I fear — ” Venters finished, with a shake of 
his head. 

“Bern, you’re bitter; but that’s only natural. We’ll wait to 
see what’s happened to my riders. Judkins, come to the house 
with me. Your wound must be attended to.” 

“ Jane, I’ll find out where Oldring drives the herd,” vowed 
Venters. 

“No, no! Bern, don’t risk it now — when the rustlers are in 
such shooting mood.” 

“I’m going. Jud, how many cattle in that red herd?’' 

“Twenty-five hundred head.” 

“Whew! What on earth can Oldring do with so many cattle? 
Why, a himdred head is a big steal. I’ve got to find out.” 

“Don’t go,” implored Jane. 

“Bern, you want a boss thet can run. Miss Withersteen, 
if it’s not too bold of me to advise, make him take a fast boss or 
don’t let him go.” 

“Yes, yes, Judkins. He must ride a horse that can’t be 
caught. Which one — ^Black Star — ^Night?” 

“Jane, I won’t take either, said Venters, emphatically. “I 
wouldn’t risk losing one of your favorites.” 

“Wrangle, then?” 

“Thet’s the boss,” replied Judkins. “Wrangle can outrun 
Black Star an’ Night. You’d never believe it, Miss Withersteen, 
but I know. Wrangle’s the biggest an’ fastest boss on the 
sage.” 

4 “Oh, no, Wrangle can’t beat Black Star. But, Bern, take 


40 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

Wrangle, if you will go. Ask Jerd for anything you need. Oh, 
be watchful, careful God speed you!” 

She clasped his hand, turned quickly away, and went down the 
lane with the rider. 

Venters rode to the barn, and, leaping off, shouted for Jerd. 
The boy came rimning. Venters sent him for meat, bread, and 
dried fruits, to be packed in saddle-bags. His own horse he 
turned loose into the nearest corral. Then he went for Wrangle. 
The giant sorrel had earned his name for a trait the opposite of 
amiability. He came readily out of the barn, but once in the 
yard he broke from Venters, and plunged about with ears laid 
back. Venters had to rope him, and then he kicked down a sec- 
tion of fence, stood on his hind legs, crashed down and fought 
the rope. Jerd returned to lend a hand. 

“Wrangle don’t git enough work,” said Jerd, as the big saddle 
went on. *^He’s unruly when he s corraled, an wants to run. 
Wait till he smells the sage!” 

“Jerd, this horse is an iron-jawed devil. I never straddled 
him but once. Run? Say, he’s swift as wind! 

When Venters’s boot touched the stirrup the sorrel bolted, 
giving him the rider’s flying mount. The swing of this fiery 
horse recalled to Venters days that were not really long past, 
when he rode into the sage as the leader of Jane Withersteen’s 
riders. Wrangle pulled hard on a tight rein. He galloped out 
of the lane, down the shady border of the grove, and hauled up 
at the watering-trough, where he pranced and champed his bit. 
Venters got off and filled his canteen while the horse drank. The 
dogs. Ring and Whitie, came trotting up for their drink. Then 
Venters remounted and turned Wrangle toward the sage. 

A wide, white trail wound away down the slope. One keen, 
sweeping glance told Venters that there was neither man nor 
horse nor steer within the limit of his vision, unless they were 
lying down in the sage. Ring loped in the lead and Whitie loped 


DECEPTION PASS 


41 


in the rear. Wrangle settled gradually into an easy swinging 
canter, and Venters’s thoughts, now that the rush and flurry of 
the start were past, and the long miles stretched before him, 
reverted to a calm reckoning of late singular coincidences. 

There was the night ride of Tull’s, which, viewed in the light 
of subsequent events, had a look of his covert machinations; 
Oldring and his Masked Rider and his rustlers riding muffled 
horses; the report that Tull had ridden out that morning with his 
man Jerry on the trail to Glaze; the strange disappearance of 
Jane Withersteen’s riders; the unusually determined attempt to 
kill the one Gentile still in her employ, an intention frustrated, no 
doubt, only by Judkins’s magnificent riding of her racer; and 
lastly the driving of the red herd. These events, to Venters’s 
color of mind, had a dark relationship. Remembering Jane’s 
accusation of bitterness, he tried hard to put aside his rancor in 
judging Tull. But it was bitter knowledge that made him see 
the truth. He had felt the shadow of an unseen hand; he had 
watched till he saw its dim outline, and then he had traced it 
to a man’s hate, to the rivalry of a Mormon Elder, to the power 
of a Bishop, to the long, far-reaching arm of a terrible creed. 
That unseen hand had made its first move against Jane Wither- 
steen. Her riders had been called in, leaving her without help 
to drive seven thousand head of cattle. But to Venters it seemed 
extraordinary that the power which had called in these riders 
had left so many cattle to be driven by rustlers and harried by 
wolves. For hand in glove with that power was an insatiate 
greed; they were one and the same. 

‘‘What can Oldring do with twenty-five hundred head of 
cattle.^” muttered Venters. “Is he a Mormon? Did he meet 
Tull last night? It looks like a black plot to me. But Tull and 
his churchmen wouldn’t ruin Jane Withersteen unless the Church 
was to profit by that ruin. Where does Oldring come in? I’m 
going to find out about these things.” 


42 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

Wrangle did twenty-five miles in three hours and walked little 
of the way. When he had gotten warmed up he had been allowed 
to choose his own gait. The afternoon had well advanced when 
Venters struck the trail of the red herd and found where it had 
grazed the night before. Then Venters rested the horse and used 
his eyes. Near at hand were a cow and a calf and several year- 
lings and farther out in the sage some straggling steers. He 
caught a glimpse of coyotes skulking near the cattle. The slow, 
sweeping gaze of the rider failed to find other living things within 
the field of sight. The sage about him was breast-high to his 
horse, oversweet with its warm, fragrant breath, gray where it 
waved to the light, darker where the wind left it still, and beyond 
the wonderful haze-purple lent by distance. Far across that 
wide waste began the slow lift of uplands through which Deception 
Pass cut its tortuous many-cafioned way. 

Venters raised the bridle of his horse and followed the broad 
cattle trail. The crushed sage resembled the path of a monster 
snake. In a few miles of travel he passed several cows and calves 
that had escaped the drive. Then he stood on the last high 
bench of the slope with the floor of the valley beneath. The 
opening of the canon showed in a break of the sage, and the 
cattle trail paralleled it as far as he could see. That trail led 
to an undiscovered point where Oldring drove cattle into the pass, 
and many a rider who had followed it had never returned. Ven- 
ters satisfied himself that the rustlers had not deviated from their 
usual course, and then he turned at right angles off the cattle 
trail and made for the head of the pass. 

The sun lost its heat and wore down to the western horizon, 
where it changed from white to gold and rested like a huge ball 
about to roll on its golden shadows down the slope. Venters 
watched the lengthening of the rays and bars, and marveled at 
his own league-long shadow. The sun sank. There was instant 
shading of brightness about him, and he saw a kind of cold 


43 


DECEPTION PASS 

purple bloom creep ahead of him to cross the cafion, to mount 
the opposite slope and chase and darken and bury the last 
golden flare of sunlight. 

Venters rode into a trail that he always took to get down into 
the canon. He dismounted and found no tracks but his own 
made several days previous. Nevertheless he sent the dog Ring 
ahead and waited. In a little while Ring returned. Whereupon 
Venters led his horse on to the break in the ground. 

The opening into Deception Pass was one of the remarkable 
natural phenomena in a country remarkable for vast slopes of 
sage, uplands insulated by gigantic red walls, and deep canons 
of mysterious source and outlet. Here the valley floor was level, 
and here opened a narrow chasm, a ragged vent in yellow walls 
of stone. The trail down the five hundred feet of sheer depth 
always tested Venters’s nerve. It was bad going for even a 
bm-ro. But Wrangle, as Venters led him, snorted defiance or 
disgust rather than fear, and, like a hobbled horse on the jump, 
lifted his ponderous iron-shod fore hoofs and crashed down over 
the first rough step. Venters warmed to greater admiration of 
the sorrel; and, giving him a loose bridle, he stepped down foot 
by foot. Oftentimes the stones and shale started by Wrangle 
buried Venters to his knees; again he was hard put to it to dodge 
a rolling boulder; there were times when he could not see Wrangle 
for dust, and once he and the horse rode a sliding shelf of yellow, 
weathered cliff. It was a trail on which there could be no stops, 
and, therefore, if perilous, it was at least one that did not take 
long in the descent. 

Venters breathed lighter when that was over, and felt a 
sudden assurance in the success of his enterprise. For at first 
it had^ been a reckless determination to achieve something at 
any cost, and now it resolved itself into an adventure worthy of 
all his reason and cunning, and keenness of eye and ear. 

Pinon pines clustered in little clumps along the level floor of 


44 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

, / 

the pass. Twilight had gathered under the walls. Venters rode 
into the trail and up the canon. Gradually the trees and caves 
and objects low down turned black, and this blackness moved up 
the walls till night enfolded the pass, while day still lingered 
above. The sky darkened; and stars began to show, at first pale 
and then bright. Sharp notches of the rim- wall, biting like teeth 
into the blue, were landmarks by which Venters knew where his 
camping site lay. He had to feel his way through a thicket of 
slender oaks to a spring where he watered Wrangle and drank 
himself. Here he unsaddled and turned Wrangle loose, having 
no fear that the horse would leave the thick, cool grass adjacent 
to the spring. Next he satisfied his own hunger, fed Ring and 
Whitie, and, with them curled beside him, composed himself to 
await sleep. 

There had been a time when night in the high altitude of 
these Utah uplands had been satisfying to Venters. But that 
was before the oppression of enemies had made the change in his 
mind. As a rider guarding the herd he had never thought of the 
night’s wildness and loneliness; as an outcast, now when the full 
silence set in and the deep darkness, and trains of radiant stars 
shone cold and calm, he lay with an ache in his heart. For a 
year he had lived as a black fox, driven from his kind. He longed 
for the sound of a voice, the touch of a hand. In the daytime 
there was riding from place to place, and the grim gun practice 
to which something drove him, and other tasks that at least 
necessitated action; at night, before he won sleep, there was strife 
in his soul. He yearned to leave the endless sage-slopes, the wilder- 
ness of canons; and it was in the lonely night that this yearning 
grew unbearable. It was then that he reached forth to feel Ring 
or Whitie, immeasurably grateful for the love and companion- 
ship of two dogs. 

On this night the same old loneliness beset Venters, the old 
habit of sad thought and burning unquiet had its way. But 


45 


DECEPTION PASS 

from it evolved a conviction that his useless life had undergone 
a subtle change. He had sensed it first when Wrangle swung 
him up to the high saddle; he knew it now when he lay in the 
gateway of Deception Pass. He had no thrill of adventure, 
rather a gloomy perception of great hazard, perhaps death. He 
meant to find Oldring’s retreat. The rustlers had fast horses, 
but none that could catch Wrangle. Venters knew no rustler 
could creep upon him at night when Ring and Whitie guarded his 
hiding-place. For the rest he had eyes and ears, and a long rifle 
and an unerring aim, which he meant to use. Strangely his fore- 
shadowing of change did not hold a thought of the killing of Tull. 
It related only to what was to happen to him in Deception Pass; 
and he could no more lift the veil of that mystery than tell where 
the trails led to in that unexplored canon. Moreover, he did 
not care. And at length, tired out by stress of thought, he fell 
asleep. 

When his eyes unclosed, day had come again, and he saw the 
rim of the opposite wall tipped with the gold of sunrise. A few 
moments suflSced for the morning’s simple camp duties. Near 
at hand he found Wrangle, and to his surprise the horse came to 
him. Wrangle was one of the horses that left his viciousness in 
the home corral. What he wanted was to be free of mules and 
burros and steers, to roll in dust-patches, and then to run down 
the wide, open, windy sage-plains, and at night browse and sleep 
in the cool wet grass of a spring-hole. Jerd knew the sorrel when 
he said of him: “Wait till he smells the sage!” 

Venters saddled and led him out of the oak thicket, and, leap- 
ing astride, rode up the canon with Ring and Whitie trotting 
behind. An old grass-grown trail followed the course of a shallow 
wash where flowed a thin stream of water. The canon was a 
hundred rods wide; its yellow walls were perpendicular; it had 
abundant sage and a scant growth of oak and pinon. For five 
miles it held to a comparatively straight bearing, and then began 


46 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


a heightening of rugged walls and a deepening of the floor. Be- 
yond this point of sudden change in the character of the canon 
Venters had never explored, and here was the real door to the 
intricacies of Deception Pass. 

He reined Wrangle to a walk, halted now and then to listen, 
and then proceeded cautiously with shifting and alert gaze. The 
canon assumed proportions that dwarfed those of its first ten 
miles. Venters rode on and on, not losing in the interest of his 
wild surroundings any of his caution or keen search for tracks or 
sight of living thing. If there ever had been a trail here, he could 
not find it. He rode through sage and clumps of pinon-trees 
and grassy plots where long-petaled purple lilies bloomed. He 
rode through a dark constriction of the pass no wider than the 
lane in the grove at Cottonwoods. And he came out into a great 
amphitheater into which jutted huge towering corners of a con- 
fluence of intersecting canons. 

Venters sat his horse and, with a rider’s eye, studied this 
wild cross-cut of huge stone gullies. Then he went on, guided 
by the course of running water. If it had not been for the main 
stream of water flowing north he would never have been able to 
tell which of those many openings was a continuation of the pass. 
In crossing this amphitheater he went by the mouths of five 
canons, fording little streams that flowed into the larger one. 
Gaining the outlet which he took to be the pass, he rode on again 
under overhanging walls. One side was dark in shade, the other 
light in sun. This narrow passageway turned and twisted and 
opened into a valley that amazed Venters. 

Here again was a sweep of purple sage, richer than upon the 
higher levels. The valley was miles long and several wide and 
inclosed by unscalable walls. But it was the background of this 
valley that so forcibly struck him. Across the sage-flat rose a 
strange upflinging of yellow rocks. He could not tell which 
were close and which were distant. Scrawled mounds of stoiie. 


DECEPTION PASS 47 

like mountain waves, seemed to roll up to steep bare slopes and 
towers. 

In this plain of sage Venters flushed birds and rabbits, and 
when he had proceeded about a mile he caught sight of the bob- 
bing white tails of a herd of running antelope. He rode along 
the edge of the stream which wound toward the western end of 
the slowly-looming mounds of stone. The high slope retreated 
out of sight behind the nearer projection. To Venters the valley 
appeared to have been filled in by a mountain of melted stone 
that had hardened in strange shapes of rounded outline. He 
followed the stream till he lost it in a deep cut. Therefore Ven- 
ters quit the dark slit which baffled further search in that direction, 
and rode out along the curved edge of stone where it met the sage. 
It was not long before he came to a low place, and here Wrangle 
readily climbed up. 

All about him was ridgy roll of wind-smoothed, rain-washed 
rock. Not a tuft of grass or a bunch of sage colored the dull 
rust-yellow. He saw where, to the right, this uneven flow of 
stone ended in a blunt wall. Leftward, from the hollow that 
lay at his feet, mounted a gradual slow-swelling slope to a great 
height topped by leaning, cracked, and ruined crags. Not for 
some time did he grasp the wonder of that acclivity. It was 
no less than a mountain-side, glistening in the sun like polished 
granite, with cedar-trees springing as if by magic out of the de- 
nuded surface. Winds had swept it clear of weathered shale, 
and rains had washed it free of dust. Far up the curved slope 
its beautiful lines broke to meet the vertical rim-wall, to lose its 
grace in a different order and color of rock, a stained yellow cliff 
of cracks and caves and seamed crags. And straight before 
Venters was a scene less striking but more significant to his keen 
survey. For beyond a mile of the bare, hummocky rock began 
the valley of sage, and the mouths of canons, one of which surely 
was another gateway into the pass. 


48 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

He got off his horse, and, giving the bridle to Ring to hold, 
he commenced a search for the cleft where the stream ran. He 
was not successful and concluded the water dropped into an 
underground passage. Then he returned to where he had left 
Wrangle, and led him down off the stone to the sage. It was a 
short ride to the opening canons. There was no reason for a 
choice of which one to enter. The one he rode into was a clear, 
sharp shaft in yellow stone a thousand feet deep, with wonderful 
wind- worn caves low down and high above buttressed and tur- 
reted ramparts. Farther on Venters came into a region where 
deep indentations marked the line of canon walls. These were 
huge, cover-like blind pockets extending back to a sharp corner 
with a dense growth of underbrush and trees. 

Venters penetrated into one of these offshoots, and, as he had 
hoped, he found abundant grass. He had to bend the oak sap- 
lings to get his horse through. Deciding to make this a hiding- 
place if he could find water, he worked back to the limit of the 
shelving walls. In a little cluster of silver spruces he found a 
spring. This inclosed nook seemed an ideal place to leave his 
horse and to camp at night, and from which to make stealthy 
trips on foot. The thick grass hid his trail; the dense growth of 
oaks in the opening would serve as a barrier to keep Wrangle in, 
if, indeed, the luxuriant browse would not suffice for that. So 
Venters, leaving Whitie with the horse, called Ring to his side, 
and, rifle in hand, worked his way out to the open. A careful 
photographing in mind of the formation of the bold outlines of 
rim-rock assured him he would be able to return to his retreat 
even in the dark. 

Bunches of scattered sage covered the center of the canon, 
and among these Venters threaded his way with the step of an 
Indian. At intervals he put his hand on the dog and stopped 
to listen. There was a drowsy hum of insects, but no other 
sound disturbed the warm midday stillness. Venters saw ahead 


DECEPTION PASS 49 

a turn, more abrupt than any yet. Warily he rounded this 
corner, once again to halt bewildered. 

The canon opened fan-shaped into a great oval of green and 
gray growths. It was the hub of an oblong wheel, and from it, 
at regular distances, like spokes, ran the outgoing canons. Here 
a dull red color predominated over the fading yellow. The 
corners of wall bluntly rose, scarred and scrawled, to taper into 
towers and serrated peaks and pinnacled domes. 

Venters pushed on more heedfuUy than ever. Toward the 
center of this circle the sage-brush grew smaller and farther apart. 
He was about to sheer off to the right, where thickets and jumbles 
of fallen rock would afford him cover, when he ran right upon 
a broad cattle trail. Like a road it was, more than a trail; 
and the cattle tracks were fresh. What surprised him more, 
they were wet! He pondered over this feature. It had not 
rained. The only solution to this puzzle was that the cattle had 
been driven through water, and water deep enough to wet 
their legs. 

Suddenly Ring growled low. Venters rose cautiously and 
looked over the sage. A band of straggling horsemen were riding 
across the oval. He sank down startled and trembling. 
“Rustlers!” he muttered. Hurriedly he glanced about for a 
place to hide. Near at hand there was nothing but sage-brush. 
He dared not risk crossing the open patches to reach the rocks. 
Again he peeped over the sage. The rustlers — ^four — ^five — 
seven— eight in all, were approaching, but not directly in line 
with him. That was relief for a cold deadness which seemed to 
be creeping inward along his veins. He crouched down with 
bated breath and held the bristling dog. 

He heard the click of iron-shod hoofs on stone, the coarse 
laughter of men, and then voices gradually dying away. Long 
moments passed. Then he rose. The rustlers were riding into 
a canon. Their horses were tired, and they had several pack 


50 


EIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


animals; evidently they had traveled far. Venters doubted that 
they were the rustlers who had driven the red herd. Oldring’s 
band had split. Venters watched these horsemen disappear under 
a bold canon wall. 

The rustlers had come from the northwest side of the oval. 
Venters kept a steady gaze in that direction, hoping, if there were 
more, to see from what canon they rode. A quarter of an hour 
went by. Reward for his vigilance came when he descried three 
more mounted men, far over to the north. But out of what 
canon they had ridden it was too late to tell. He watched the 
three ride across the oval and round the jutting red corner where 
the others had gone. 

“Up that canon!” exclaimed Venters. “Oldring’s den! I’ve 
found it!” 

A knotty point for Venters was the fact that the cattle tracks 
all pointed west. The broad trail came from the direction of 
the canon into which the rustlers had ridden, and undoubtedly 
the cattle had been driven out of it across the oval. There were 
no tracks pointing the other way. It had been in his mind that 
Oldring had driven the red herd toward the rendezvous, and not 
from it. Where did that broad trail come down into the pass, 
and where did it lead.^ Venters knew he wasted time in ponder- 
ing the question, but it held a fascination not easily dispelled. 
For many years Oldring’s mysterious entrance and exit to De- 
ception Pass had been all-absorbing topics to sage-riders. 

All at once the dog put an end to Venters’s pondering. Ring 
sniffed the air, turned slowly in his tracks with a whine, and then 
growled. Venters wheeled. Two horsemen were within a 
hundred yards, coming straight at him. One, lagging behind the 
other, was Oldring’s Masked Rider. 

Venters cunningly sank, slowly trying to merge into sage- 
brush. But, guarded as his action was, the first horse detected 
it. He stopped short, snorted, and shot up his ears. The rustler 



LIKE A FLASH THE BLUE BARREL OF HIS RIFLE GLEAMED 


level and he shot once — TWICE 




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DECEPTION PASS 51 

bent forward, as if keenly peering ahead. Then, with a swift 
sweep, he jerked a gun from its sheath and fired. 

The bullet zipped through the sage-brush. Flying bits of 
wood struck Venters, and the hot, stinging pain seemed to lift 
him in one leap. Like a fiash the blue barrel of his rifie gleamed 
level and he shot once — twice. 

The foremost rustler dropped his weapon, and toppled from 
his saddle, to fall with his foot catching in a stirrup. The horse 
snorted wildly and plunged away, dragging the rustler through 
the sage. 

The Masked Rider huddled over his pommel, slowly swaying 
to one side, and then, with a faint, strange cry, slipped out of the 
saddle. 


CHAPTER V 


THE MASKED RIDER 


ENTERS looked quickly from the fallen rustlers to the 



canon where the others had disappeared. He calculated 


on the time needed for running horses to return to the open, if 
their riders heard shots. He waited breathlessly. But the 
estimated time dragged by and no riders appeared. Venters 
began presently to believe that the rifle reports had not penetrated 
into the recesses of the canon, and felt safe for the immediate 


present. 


He hurried to the spot where the first rustler had been dragged 
by his horse. The man lay in deep grass, dead, jaw fallen, eyes 
protruding — a sight that sickened Venters. The first man at 
whom he had ever aimed a weapon he had shot through the 
heart. With the clammy sweat oozing from every pore Venters 
dragged the rustler in among some boulders and covered him 
with slabs of rock. Then he smoothed out the crushed trail in 
grass and sage. The rustler’s horse had stopped a quarter of a 
mile off and was grazing. 

When Venters rapidly strode toward the Masked Rider not 
even the cold nausea that gripped him could wholly banish 
curiosity. For he had shot Oldring’s infamous lieutenant, whose 
face had never been seen. Venters experienced a grim pride in 
the feat. What would Tull say to this achievement of the out- 
cast who rode too often to Deception Pass? 

Venters’s curious eagerness and expectation had not prepared 


THE MASKED RIDER 53 

him for the shock he received when he stood over a slight, dark 
figure. The rustler wore the black mask that had given him his 
name, but he had no weapons. Venters glanced at the drooping 
horse; there were no gun-sheaths on the saddle. 

“A rustler who didn’t pack guns!” muttered Venters. “He 
wears no belt. He couldn’t pack guns in that rig. . . . Strange!” 

A low, gasping intake of breath and a sudden twitching of 
body told Venters the rider still lived. 

“He’s alive! . . . I’ve got to stand here and watch him die. 
And I shot an unarmed man.” 

Shrinkingly Venters removed the rider’s wide sombrero and 
the black cloth mask. This action disclosed bright chestnut 
hair, inclined to curl, and a white, youthful face. Along the 
lower line of cheek and jaw was a clear demarcation, where the 
brown of tanned skin met the white that had been hidden from 
the sun. 

“ Oh, he’s only a boy ! . . • What ! Can he be Oldring’s Masked 
Rider?” 

The boy showed signs of returning consciousness. He stirred; 
his lips moved; a small brown hand clenched in his blouse. 

Venters knelt with a gathering horror of his deed. His 
bullet had entered the rider’s right breast, high up to the shoulder. 
With hands that shook. Venters untied a black scarf and ripped 
open the blood-wet blouse. 

First he saw a gaping hole, dark red against a whiteness of 
skin, from which welled a slender red stream. Then, the grace- 
ful, beautiful swell of a woman’s breast! 

“A woman!” he cried. “A girl! . . . I’ve killed a girl!” 

She suddenly opened eyes that transfixed Venters. They 
were fathomless blue. Consciousness of death was there, a 
blended terror and pain, but no consciousness of sight. She did 
not see Venters. She stared into the unknown. 

Then came a spasm of vitality. She writhed in a torture of 


54 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

reviving strength, and in her convulsions she almost tore from 
Venters’s grasp. Slowly she relaxed and sank partly back. The 
ungloved hand sought the wound, and pressed so hard that her 
wrist half buried itself in her bosom. Blood trickled between her 
spread fingers. And she looked at Venters with eyes that saw 
him. 

He cursed himself and the unerring aim of which he had been 
so proud. He had seen that look in the eyes of a crippled ante- 
lope which he was about to finish with his knife. But in her it 
had infinitely more — a revelation of mortal spirit. The instinctive 
clinging to life was there, and the divining helplessness and the 
terrible accusation of the stricken. 

‘‘Forgive me! I didn’t know!” burst out Venters. 

“You shot me — ^you’ve killed me!” she whispered, in panting 
gasps. Upon her lips appeared a fluttering, bloody froth. By 
that Venters knew the air in her lungs was mixing with blood. 
“Oh, I knew — ^it would — come — some day! . . . Oh, the burn! . . . 
Hold me — I’m sinking — it’s all dark. . . . Ah, God ! . . . Mercy ” 

Her rigidity loosened in one long quiver and she lay back 
limp, still, white as snow, with closed eyes. 

Venters thought then that she died. But the faint pulsation 
of her breast assured him that life yet lingered. Death seemed 
only a matter of moments, for the bullet had gone clear through 
her. Nevertheless, he tore sage-leaves from a bush, and, pressing 
them tightly over her wounds, he bound the black scarf round her 
shoulder, tying it securely under her arm. Then he closed the 
blouse, hiding from his sight that blood-stained, accusing breast. 

“What — now?'' he questioned, with flying mind. “I must 
get out of here. She’s dying — ^but I can’t leave her.” 

He rapidly surveyed the sage to the north and made out no 
animate object. Then he pieked up the girl’s sombrero and the 
mask. This time the mask gave him as great a shoek as when he 
first removed it from her face. For in the woman he had for- 








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55 


THE MASKED RIDER 

gotten the rustler, and this black strip of felt-cloth established 
the identity of Oldring’s Masked Rider. Venters had solved the 
mystery. He slipped his rifle under her, and, lifting her care- 
fully upon it, he began to retrace his steps. The dog trailed in 
his shadow. And the horse, that had stood drooping by, fol- 
lowed without a call. Venters chose the deepest tufts of grass 
and clumps of sage on his return. From time to time he glanced 
over his shoulder. He did not rest. His concern was to avoid 
jarring the girl and to hide his trail. Gaining the narrow canon, 
he turned and held close to the wall till he reached his hiding- 
place. When he entered the dense thicket of oaks he was hard 
put to it to force a way through. But he held his burden almost 
upright, and by slipping sidewise and bending the saplings he 
got in. Through sage and grass he hurried to the grove of silver 
spruces. 

He laid the girl down, almost fearing to look at her. Though 
marble pale and cold, she was living. Venters then appreciated 
the tax that long carry had been to his strength. He sat down 
to rest, Whitie sniffed at the pale girl and whined and crept to 
Venters’s feet. Ring lapped the water in the runway of the 
spring. 

Presently Venters went out to the opening, caught the horse, 
and, leading him through the thicket, unsaddled him and tied 
him with a long halter. Wrangle left his browsing long enough 
to whinny and toss his head. Venters felt that he could not 
rest easily till he had secured the other rustler’s horse; so, taking 
his rifle and calling for Ring, he set out. Swiftly yet watchfully 
he made his way through the canon to the oval and out to the 
cattle trail. 'S^Tiat few tracks might have betrayed him he 
obliterated, so only an expert tracker could have trailed him. 
Then, with many a wary backward glance across the sage, he 
started to round up the rustler’s horse. This was unexpectedly 
easy. He led the horse to lower ground, out of sight from the 


56 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


opposite side of the oval, along the shadowy western wall, and 
so on into his canon and secluded camp. 

The girl’s eyes were open; a feverish spot burned in her cheeks; 
she moaned something unintelligible to Venters, but he took the 
movement of her lips to mean that she wanted water. Lifting 
her head, he tipped the canteen to her lips. After that she again 
lapsed into unconsciousness or a weakness which was its counter- 
part. Venters noted, however, that the burning flush had faded 
into the former pallor. 

The sun set behind the high canon rim, and a cool shade 
darkened the walls. Venters fed the dogs and put a halter on 
the dead rustler’s horse. He allowed Wrangle to browse free. 
This done, he cut spruce boughs and made a lean-to for the girl. 
Then, gently lifting her upon a blanket, he folded the sides over 
her. The other blanket he wrapped about his shoulders and 
found a comfortable seat against a spruce-tree that upheld the 
httle shack. Ring and Whitie lay near at hand, one asleep, the 
other watchful. 

Venters dreaded the night’s vigil. At night his mind was 
active, and this time he had to watch and think and feel beside 
a dying girl whom he had all but murdered. A thousand excuses 
he invented for himself, yet not one made any difference in his 
act or his self-reproach. 

It seemed to him that when night fell black he could see her 
white face so much more plainly. 

“She’ll go, presently,” he said, “and be out of agony — thank 
God!” 

Every little while certainty of her death came to him with a 
shock; and then he would bend over and lay his ear on her breast. 
Her heart still beat. 

The early night blackness cleared to the cold starlight. The 
horses were not moving, and no sound disturbed the deathly 
silence of the canon. 


THE MASKED RIDER 57 

“I’ll bury her here,” thought Venters, “and let her grave 
be as much a mystery as her life was/’ 

For the girl s few words, the look of her eyes, the prayer, had 
strangely touched Venters. 

^ soliloquized. ^‘What was she to 

Uldrmg? Rustlers don’t have wives nor sisters nor daughters. 
She was bad— that’s all. But somehow. . . . Well, she may not 
have willmgly become the companion of rustlers. That prayer 
of hers to God for mercy! . . . Life is strange and cruel. I wonder 
if other members of Oldring’s gang are women? Likely enough. 
But what was his game? Oldring’s Masked Rider! A name to 
make villagers hide and lock their doors. A name credited with 
a dozen murders, a hundred forays, and a thousand stealings 
of cattle. What part did the girl have in this? It may have 
served Oldring to ereate mystery.” 

Hours passed. The white stars moved across the narrow 
strip of dark-blue sky above. The silence awoke to the low hum 
of insects. Venters watched the immovable white face, and as 
he watched, hour by hour waiting for death, the infamy of her 
passed from his mind. He thought only of the sadness, the 
truth of the moment. Whoever she was — whatever she had 
done — ^she was young and she was dying. 

The after-part of the night wore on interminably. The star- 
light failed and the gloom blackened to the darkest hour. “She’ll 
die at the gray of dawn,” muttered Venters, remembering some 
old woman’s fancy. The blackness paled to gray, and the gray 
lightened and day peeped over the eastern rim. Venters listened 
at the breast of the girl. She still lived. Did he only imagine 
that her heart beat stronger, ever so slightly, but stronger? He 
pressed his ear closer to her breast. And he rose with his own 
pulse quickening. 

“If she doesn’t die soon— she’s got a chance— the barest 
chance — to live,” he said. 


58 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

He wondered if the internal bleeding had ceased. There was 
no more film of blood upon her lips. But no corpse could have 
been whiter. Opening her blouse he untied the scarf, and care- 
fully picked away the sage-leaves from the wound in her shoulder. 
It had closed. Lifting her lightly, he ascertained that the same 
was true of the hole where the bullet had come out. He reflected 
on the fact that clean wounds closed quickly in the healing up- 
land air. He recalled instances of riders who had been cut and 
shot, apparently to fatal issues; yet the blood had clotted, the 
wounds closed, and they had recovered. He had no way to tell 
if internal hemorrhage still went on, but he believed that it had 
stopped. Otherwise she would surely not have lived so long. 
He marked the entrance of the bullet, and concluded that it had 
just touched the upper lobe of her lung. Perhaps the wound in 
the lung had also closed. As he began to wash the blood stains 
from her breast and carefully rebandage the wound, he was 
vaguely conscious of a strange, grave happiness in the thought 
that she might live. 

Broad daylight and a hint of sunshine high on the cliff-rim 
to the west brought him to consideration of what he had better 
do. And while busy with his few camp tasks he resolved the 
thing in his mind. It would not be wise for him to remain long 
in his present hiding-place. And if he intended to follow the 
cattle trail and try to find the rustlers he had better make a 
move at once. For he knew that rustlers, being riders, would 
not make much of a day’s or night’s absence from camp for one 
or two of their number; but when the missing ones failed to show 
up in reasonable time there would be a search. And Venters 
was afraid of that. 

“A good tracker could trail me,” he muttered. “And I’d be 
cornered here. Let’s see. Rustlers are a lazy set when they re 
not on the ride. I’ll risk it. Then I’ll change my hiding-place.” 

He carefully cleaned and reloaded his guns. When he rose 


THE MASKED RIDER 59 

to go he bent a long glance down upon the unconscious girl. 
Then, ordering Whitie and Ring to keep guard, he left the camp. 

The safest cover lay close under the wall of the canon, and 
here through the dense thickets Venters made his slow, listening 
advance toward the oval. Upon gaining the wide opening he 
decided to cross it and follow the left wall till he came to the 
cattle trail. He scanned the oval as keenly as if hunting for 
antelope. Then, stooping, he stole from one cover to another, 
taking advantage of rocks and bunches of sage, until he had 
reached the thickets under the opposite wall. Once there, he 
exercised extreme caution in his surveys of the ground ahead, 
but increased his speed when moving. Dodging from bush to 
bush he passed the mouths of two canons, and in the entrance 
of a third canon he crossed a wash of swift, clear water, to come 
abruptly upon the cattle trail. 

It followed the low bank of the wash, and, keeping it in sight. 
Venters hugged the line of sage and thicket. Like the curves 
of a serpent the canon wound for a mile or more and then opened 
into a valley. Patches of red showed clear against the purple 
of sage, and farther out on the level dotted strings of red led away 
to the wall of rock. 

“Ha, the red herd!” exclaimed Venters. 

Then dots of white and black told him there were cattle of 
other colors in this inclosed valley. Oldring, the rustler, was also 
a rancher. Venters’s calculating eye took count of stock that 
outnumbered the red herd. 

What a range! ” went on Venters. “Water and grass enough 
for fifty thousand head, and no riders needed!” 

After his first burst of surprise and rapid calculation Venters 
lost no time there, but slunk again into the sage on his back trail. 
With the discovery of Oldring’s hidden cattle-range had come 
enlightenment on several problems. Here the rustler kept his 
stock; here was Jane Withersteen’s red herd; here were the few 


60 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


cattle that had disappeared from the Cottonwoods slopes during 
the last two years. Until Oldring had driven the red herd his 
thefts of cattle for that time had not been more than enough to 
supply meat for his men. Of late no drives had been reported 
from Sterling or the villages north. And Venters knew that the 
riders had wondered at Oldring’s inactivity in that particular 
field. He and his band had been active enough in their visits 
to Glaze and Cottonwoods; they always had gold; but of late 
the amount gambled away and drunk and thrown away in the 
villages had given rise to much conjecture. Oldring’s more 
frequent visits had resulted in new saloons, and where there had 
formerly been one raid or shooting fray in the little hamlets there 
were now many. Perhaps Oldring had another range farther on 
up the pass, and from there drove the cattle to distant Utah 
towns where he was little known. But Venters came finally to 
doubt this. And, from what he had learned in the last few days, 
a belief began to form in Venters’s mind that Oldring’s intimida- 
tions of the villages and the mystery of the Masked Rider, with 
his alleged evil deeds, and the fierce resistance offered any trail- 
ing riders, and the rustling of cattle — these things were only the 
craft of the rustler-chief to conceal his real life and purpose and 
work in Deception Pass. 

And like a scouting Indian Venters crawled through the sage 
of the oval valley, crossed trail after trail on the north side, and 
at last entered the canon out of which headed the cattle trail, 
and into which he had watched the rustlers disappear. 

If he had used caution before, now he strained every nerve to 
force himself to creeping stealth and to sensitiveness of ear. He 
crawled along so hidden that he could not use his eyes except 
to aid himself in the toilsome progress through the brakes and 
ruins of cliff-wall. Yet from time to time, as he rested, he saw 
the massive red walls growing higher and wilder, more looming 
and broken. He made note of the fact that he was turning and 


THE MASKED RIDER 


61 


climbing. The sage and thickets of oak and brakes of alder gave 
place to pinon pine growing out of rocky soil. Suddenly a low, 
dull murmur assailed his ears. At first he thought it was thunder, 
then the slipping of a weathered slope of rock. But it was in- 
cessant, and as he progressed it filled out deeper and from a 
murmur changed into a soft roar. 

“Falling water,” he said. “There’s volume to that. I 
wonder if it’s the stream I lost.” 

The roar bothered him, for he could hear nothing else. Like- 
wise, however, no rustlers could hear him. Emboldened by this, 
and sure that nothing but a bird could see him, he arose from 
his hands and knees to hurry on. An opening in the pinons 
warned him that he was nearing the height of slope. 

He gained it, and dropped low with a burst of astonishment. 
Before him stretched a short canon with rounded stone floor 
bare of grass or sage or tree, and with curved, shelving walls. 
A broad rippling stream flowed toward him, and at the back 
of the canon a waterfall burst from a wide rent in the cliff, and, 
bounding down in two green steps, spread into a long white sheet. 

If Venters had not been indubitably certain that he had 
entered the right canon his astonishment would not have been 
so great. There had been no breaks in the walls, no side canons 
entering this one where the rustlers’ tracks and the cattle trail 
had guided him, and, therefore, he could not be wrong. But 
here the canon ended, and presumably the trails also. 

“That cattle trail headed out of here,” Venters kept saying 
to himself. “It headed out. Now what I want to know is 
how on earth did cattle ever get in here.^” 

If he could be sure of anything it was of the careful scrutiny 
he had given that cattle track, every hoof mark of which headed 
straight west. He was now looking east at an immense round 
boxed corner of canon down which tumbled a thin, white veil of 
water, scarcely twenty yards wide. Somehow, somewhere, his 


62 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


calculations had gone wrong. For the first time in years he found 
himself doubting his rider’s skill in finding tracks, and his 
memory of what he had actually seen. In his anxiety to keep 
under cover he must have lost himself in this offshoot of De- 
ception Pass, and thereby, in some unaccountable manner, missed 
the canon with the trails. There was nothing else for him to 
think. Rustlers could not fly, nor cattle jump down thousand- 
foot precipices. He was only proving what the sage-riders had 
long said of this labyrinthine system of deceitful canons and 
valleys — trails led down into Deception Pass, but no rider had 
ever followed them. 

On a sudden he heard above the soft roar of the waterfall 
an imusual sound that he could not define. He dropped flat 
behind a stone and listened. From the direction he had come 
swelled something that resembled a strange muffled pounding 
and splashing and ringing. Despite his nerve the chill sweat 
began to dampen his forehead. What might not be possible 
in this stone- walled maze of mystery.^ The unnatural sound 
passed beyond him as he lay gripping his rifle and fighting for 
coolness. Then from the open came the sound, now distinct and 
different. Venters recognized a hobble-bell of a horse, and the 
cracking of iron on submerged stones, and the hollow splash of 
hoofs in water. 

Relief surged over him. His mind caught again at realities, 
and curiosity prompted him to peep from behind the rock. 

In the middle of the stream waded a long string of packed 
burros driven by three superbly mounted men. Had Venters 
met these dark-clothed, dark-visaged, heavily armed men any- 
where in Utah, let alone in this robbers’ retreat, he would have 
recognized them as rustlers. The discerning eye of a rider saw 
the signs of a long, arduous trip. These men were packing in 
supplies from one of the northern villages. They were tired, 
and their horses were almost played out, and the burros plodded 


THE MASKED RIDER 63 

on, after the manner of their kind when exhausted, faithful and 
patient, but as if every weary, splashing, slipping step would be 
their last. 

^ All this Venters noted in one glance. After that he watched 
with a thrilling eagerness. Straight at the waterfall the rustlers 
drove the burros, and straight through the middle, where the 
water spread into a fleecy, thin film like dissolving smoke. Fol- 
lowing closely, the rustlers rode into this white mist, showing in 
bold black relief for an instant, and then they vanished. 

Venters drew a full breath that rushed out in brief and sudden 
utterance. 

“Good heaven! Of all the holes for a rustler! . . . There’s 
a cavern under that waterfall, and a passagewaj^ leading out 
to a canon beyond. Oldring hides in there. He needs only to 
guard a trail leading down from the sage-flat above. Little 
danger of this outlet to the pass being discovered. I stumbled 
on it by luck, after I had given up. And now I know the truth of 
what puzzled me most — why that cattle trail was wet!” 

He wheeled and ran down the slope, and out to the level of 
the sage-brush. Returning he had no time to spare, only now 
and then, between dashes, a moment when he stopped to cast 
sharp eyes ahead. The abundant grass left no trace of his trail. 
Short work he made of the distance to the circle of canons. He 
doubted that he would ever see it again; he knew he never wanted 
to; yet he looked at the red corners and towers with the eyes 
of a rider picturing landmarks never to be forgotten. 

Here he spent a panting moment in a slow-circling gaze of 
the sage-oval and the gaps between the bluffs. Nothing stirrred 
except the gentle wave of the tips of the brush. Then he pressed 
on past the mouths of several canons and over ground new to 
him, now close under the eastern wall. This latter part proved 
to be easy traveling, well screened from possible observation from 
the north and west, and he soon covered it and felt safer in the 


64 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

deepening shade of his own canon. Then the huge, notched 
bulge of red rim loomed over him, a mark by which he knew 
again the deep cover where his camp lay hidden. As he pene- 
trated the thicket, safe again for the present, his thoughts re- 
verted to the girl he had left there. The afternoon had far 
advanced. How would he find her? He ran into camp, frighten- 
ing the dogs. 

The girl lay with wide open, dark eyes, and they dilated when 
he knelt beside her. The flush of fever shone in her cheeks. He 
lifted her and held water to her dry lips, and felt an ine^licable 
sense of lightness as he saw her swallow in a slow, choking gulp. 
Gently he laid her back. 

— are— you?” she whispered, haltingly. 

“I’m the man who shot you,” he replied. 

“You’ll— not— kill me — now?” 

“No, no.” 

“What— will— you — do — with me?” 

“When you get better— strong enough— I’ll take you back 
to the canon where the rustlers ride through the waterfall. 

As with a faint shadow from a flitting wing overhead, the 
marble whiteness of her face seemed to change. 

“ Don’t— take— me— back— there ! ” 


CHAPTER VI 


THE MILL-WHEEL OF STEERS 

M EANTENIE, at the ranch, when Judkins’s news had sent 
Venters on the trail of the rustlers, J ane Withersteen led 
the injured man to her house and with skilled fingers dressed the 
gunshot wound in his arm. 

“Judkins, what do you think happened to my riders?” 

“I — I’d rather not say,” he replied. 

“Tell me. WTiatever you’ll tell me I’ll keep to myself. I’m 
beginning to worry about more than the loss of a herd of cattle. 
Venters hinted of — but tell me, Judkins.” 

“Well, Miss Withersteen, I think as Venters thinks— your 
riders have been called in.” 

“Judkins! . . . By whom?” 

“You know who handles the reins of your Mormon riders.” 
“Do you dare insinuate that my churchmen have ordered 
in my riders?” 

“I ain’t insinuatin’ nothin’. Miss Withersteen,” answered 
Judkins, with spirit. “I know what I’m talking about. I 
didn’t want to tell you.” 

“Oh, I can’t believe that! I’ll not believe it! Would Tull 
leave my herds at the mercy of rustlers and wolves just because — 
because — ? No, no! It’s unbelievable.” 

“Yes, thet particular thing’s onheard of around Cottonwoods. 
But, beggin’ pardon. Miss Withersteen, there never was any 
other rich Mormon woman here on the border, let alone one 
thet’s taken the bit between her teeth.” 




66 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

That was a bold thing for the reserved Judkins to say, but 
it did not anger her. This rider’s crude hint of her spirit gave 
her a glimpse of what others might think. Humility and 
obedience had been hers always. But had she taken the bit 
between her teeth? Still she wavered. And then, with a quick 
spurt of warm blood along her veins, she thought of Black Star 
when he got the bit fast between his iron jaws and ran wild in 
the sage. If she ever started to run! Jane smothered the glow 
and burn within her, ashamed of a passion for freedom that 
opposed her duty. 

“Judkins, go to the village,” she said, ‘‘and when you have 
learned anything definite about my riders please come to me at 
once.” 

When he had gone Jane resolutely applied her mind to a 
number of tasks that of late had been neglected. Her father 
had trained her in the management of a hundred employees and 
the working of gardens and fields; and to keep record of the 
movements of cattle and riders. And beside the many duties 
she had added to this work was one of extreme delicacy, such as 
required all her tact and ingenuity. It was an unobtrusive, 
almost secret aid which she rendered to the Gentile families of 
the village. Though Jane Withersteen never admitted so to 
herself, it amounted to no less than a system of charity. But 
for her invention of numberless kinds of employment, for which 
there was no actual need, these famihes of Gentiles, who had 
failed in a Mormon community, would have starved. 

In aiding these poor people Jane thought she deceived her 
keen churchmen, but it was a kind of deceit for which she did 
not pray to be forgiven. Equally as difficult was the task of 
deceiving the Gentiles, for they were as proud as they were poor. 
It had been a great grief to her to discover how these people 
hated her people; and it had been a source of great joy that 
through her they had come to soften in hatred. At any time 


THE MILL-WHEEL OF STEERS 


67 


this work called for a clearness of mind that precluded anxiety 
and worry; but under the present circumstances it required 
all her vigor and obstinate tenacity to pin her attention upon 
her task. 

Sunset came, bringing with the end of her labor a patient 
calmness and power to wait that had not been hers earlier in the 
day. She expected Judkins, but he did not appear. Her house 
was always quiet; to-night, however, it seemed unusually so. 
At supper her women served her with a silent assiduity; it spoke 
what their sealed lips could not utter — the sympathy of Mormon 
women. Jerd came to her with the key of the great door of the 
stone stable, and to make his daily report about the horses. 
One of his daily duties was to give Black Star and Night and the 
other racers a ten-mile run. This day it had been omitted, and 
the boy grew confused in explanations that she had not asked for. 
She did inquire if he would return on the morrow, and Jerd, in 
mingled surprise and relief, assured her he would always work 
for her. Jane missed the rattle and trot, canter and gallop of 
the incoming riders on the hard trails. Dusk shaded the grove 
where she walked; the birds ceased singing; the wind sighed 
through the leaves of the cottonwoods, and the running water 
murmured down its stone-bedded channel. The glimmering of 
the first star was like the peace and beauty of the night. Her 
faith welled up in her heart and said that all would soon be right 
in her little world. She pictured Venters about his lonely camp- 
fire sitting between his faithful dogs. She prayed for his safety, 
for the success of his undertaking. 

Early the next morning one of Jane’s women brought in word 
that Judkins wished to speak to her. She hurried out, and in 
her surprise to see him armed with rifle and revolver, she forgot 
her intention to inquire about his wound. 

“Judkins! Those guns? You never carried guns.” 

“It’s high time. Miss Withersteen,” he replied. “Will you 


68 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

come into the grove? It ain’t jest exactly safe for me to be seen 
here.” 

She walked with him into the shade of the cottonwoods. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Miss Withersteen, I went to my mother’s house last night. 
While there, some one knocked, an’ a man asked for me. I went 
to the door. He wore a mask. He said I’d better not ride any 
more for Jane Withersteen. His voice was hoarse an’ strange, 
disguised I reckon, like his face. He said no more, an’ ran off 
in the dark.” 

“Did you know who he was?” asked Jane, in a low voice. 

“Yes.” 

Jane did not ask to know; she did not want to know; she 
feared to know. All her calmness fled at a single thought. 

“Thet’s why I’m packin’ guns,” went on Judkins. “For 
I’ll never quit ridin’ for you, Miss Withersteen, till you let me 
go.” 

“Judkins, do you want to leave me?” 

“Do I look thet way? Give me a hoss — a fast hoss, an’ send 
me out on the sage.” 

“Oh, thank you, Judkins! You’re more faithful than my 
own people. I ought not accept your loyalty — ^you might suffer 
more through it. But what in the world can I do? My head 
whirls. The wrong to Venters — the stolen herd — these masks, 
threats, this coil in the dark! I can’t understand! But I feel 
something dark and terrible closing in around me.” 

“Miss Withersteen, it’s all simple enough,” said Judkins, 
earnestly. “Now please listen — an’ beggin’ your pardon — ^jest 
turn thet deaf Mormon ear aside, an’ let me talk clear an’ plain 
in the other. I went around to the saloons an’ the stores an’ 
the loafin’ places yesterday. All your riders are in. There’s 
talk of a vigilance band organized to hunt down rustlers. They 
call themselves ‘The Riders.’ Thet’s the report — thet’s the 


THE MILL-WHEEL OF STEERS 69 

reason given for your riders leavin’ you. Strange tliet only a 
few riders of other ranchers joined the band! An’ Tull’s 
Jerry Card— he’s the leader. I seen him an’ his boss. He ain’t 
been to Glaze. I’m not easy to fool on the looks of a boss thet’s 
traveled the sage. Tull an’ Jerry didn’t ride to Glaze! . . . Well, 
I met Blake an’ Dorn, both good friends of rmne, usually, as far 
as their Mormon lights will let ’em go. But these fellers couldn’t 
fool me, an’ they didn’t try very hard. I asked them, straight 
out l&e a man, why they left you like thet. I didn’t forget to 
mention how you nursed Blake’s poor old mother when she was 
sick, an how good you was to Dorn’s kids. They looked 
ashamed. Miss Withersteen. An’ they jest froze up— thet dark 
set look thet makes them strange an’ different to me. But I 
could^ tell the difference between thet first natural twinge of 
conscience, an the later look of some secret thing. An’ the 
difference I caught was thet they couldn’t help themselves. 
They hadn’t no say in the matter. They looked as if their bein’ 
unfaithful to you was bein’ faithful to a higher duty. An’ there’s 
the secret. Why, it’s as plain as — as sight of my gun here.” 

“Plain! . . . My herds to wander in the sage — to be stolen! 
Jane Withersteen a poor woman! Her head to be brought low 
and her spirit broken! . . . Aye, Judkins, it’s plain enough.” 

“Miss Withersteen, let me get what boys I can gather, an’ 
hold the white herd. It’s on the slope now, not ten miles out — 
three thousand head, an’ all steers. They’re wild, an’ likely to 
stampede at the pop of a jack-rabbit’s ears. We’ll camp right 
with them, an’ try to hold them.” 

“Judkins, I’ll reward you some day for your service, unless 
all is taken from me. Get the boys and tell Jerd to give you 
pick of my horses, except Black Star and Night. But — do not 
shed blood for my cattle nor heedlessly risk your lives.” 

Jane Withersteen rushed to the silence and seclusion of her 
room, and there could not longer hold back the bursting of her 


70 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


wrath. She went stone-blind in the fury of a passion that had 
never before showed its power. Lying upon her bed, sightless, 
voiceless, she was a writhing, living flame. And she tossed 
there while her fury burned and burned, and finally burned 
itself out. 

Then, weak and spent, she lay thinking, not of the oppression 
that would break her, but of this new revelation of self. Until 
the last few days there had been little in her life to rouse passions. 
Her forefathers had been Vikings, savage chieftains who bore no 
cross and brooked no hindrance to their will. Her father had 
inherited that temper; and at times, like antelope fleeing before 
fire on the slope, his people fled from his red rages. Jane Wither- 
steen realized that the spirit of wrath and war had lain dormant 
in her. She shrank from black depths hitherto unsuspected. 
The one thing in man or woman that she scorned above all scorn, 
and which she could not forgive, was hate. Hate headed a 
flaming pathway straight to hell. All in a flash, beyond her 
control there had been in her a birth of fiery hate. And the man 
who had dragged her peaceful and loving spirit to this degradation 
was a minister of God’s word, an Elder of her church, the coun- 
selor of her beloved Bishop. 

The loss of herds and ranges, even of Amber Spring and the 
Old Stone House, no longer concerned Jane Withers teen; she 
faced the foremost thought of her life, what she now considered 
the mightiest problem — the salvation of her soul. 

She knelt by her bedside and prayed; she prayed as she had 
never prayed in all her life — ^prayed to be forgiven for her sin; 
to be immune from that dark, hot hate; to love Tull as her min- 
ister, though she could not love him as a man; to do her duty 
by her church and people and those dependent upon her bounty; 
to hold reverence of God and womanhood inviolate. 

When Jane Withersteen rose from that storm of wrath and 
prayer for help she was serene, calm, sure — a changed woman. 


71 


THE MILL-WHEEL OF STEERS 

She would do her duty as she saw it, live her own life as her own 
truth guided her. She might never be able to marry a man of 
her choice, but she certainly never would become the wife of TiJl. 
Her churchmen might take her cattle and horses, ranges and 
fields, her corrals and stables, the house of Withersteen and the 
water that nourished the village of Cottonwoods; but they could 
not force her to marry Tull, they could not change her decision 
or break her spirit. Once resigned to further loss, and sure of 
herself, Jane Withersteen attained a peace of mind that had not 
been hers for a year. She forgave Tull, and felt a melancholy 
regret over what she knew he considered duty, irrespective of 
his personal feeling for her. First of all, Tull, as he was man, 
wanted her for himself; and secondly, he hoped to save her and 
her riches for his church. She did not believe that Tull had 
been actuated solely by his minister’s zeal to save her soul. She 
doubted her interpretation of one of his dark sayings— that if 
she were, lost to him she might as well be lost to heaven. Jane 
Withersteen’s common sense took arms against the binding 
limits of her religion; and she doubted that her Bishop, whom 
she had been taught had direct communication with God, 
would damn her soul for refusing to marry a Mormon. As for 
Tull and his churchmen, when they had harassed her, perhaps 
made her poor, they would find her unchangeable, and then she 
would get back most of what she had lost. So she reasoned, 
true at last to her faith in all men, and in their ultimate goodness. 

The clank of iron hoofs upon the stone courtyard drew her 
hurriedly from her retirement. There, beside his horse, stood 
Lassiter, his dark apparel and the great black gun-sheaths con- 
trasting singularly with his gentle smile. Jane’s active mind 
took up her interest in him and her half-determined desire to use 
what charm she had to foil his evident design in visiting Cotton- 
woods. If she could mitigate his hatred of Mormons, or at 
least keep him from killing more of them, not only would she 


72 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

be saving lier people, but also be leading back tbis blood-spiller 
to some semblance of the human. 

“Morning ma’am,” he said, black sombrero in hand. 

“Lassiter, I’m not an old woman, or even a madam,” she 
replied, with her bright smile. “If you can’t say Miss Wither- 
Steen — call me Jane.” 

“I reckon Jane would be easier. First names are always 
handy for me.” 

“Well, use mine, then. Lassiter, I’m glad to see you. I’m 
in trouble.” 

Then she told him of Judkins’s return, of the driving of the 
red herd, of Venters’s departure on Wrangle, and the calling-in 
of her riders. 

“ ’Pears to me you’re some smilin’ an’ pretty for a woman 
with so much trouble,” he remarked. 

“Lassiter! Are you paying me compliments But, seriously, 
I’ve made up my mind not to be miserable. I’ve lost much 
and I’ll lose more. Nevertheless, I won’t be sour, and I hope 
I’ll never be unhappy — again.” 

Lassiter twisted his hat round and round, as was his way, 
and took his time in replying. 

“Women are strange to me. I got to back-trailin’ myself 
from them long ago. But I’d like a game woman. Might I 
ask, seein’ as how you take this trouble, if you’re goin’ to 
fight?” 

“Fight! How? Even if I would, I haven’t a friend except 
that boy who doesn’t dare stay in the village.” 

“I make bold to say, ma’am — ^Jane — ^that there’s another, 
if you want him.” 

“Lassiter! . . . Thank you. But how can I accept you as a 
friend? Think! Why, you’d ride down into the village with 
those terrible guns and kill my enemies— who are also my 
churchmen.” 


THE MILL-WHEEL OF STEERS 73 

‘T reckon I might be riled up to jest about that,” he replied, 
dryly. 

She held out both hands to him. 

Lassiter ! 1 11 accept your friendship — be proud of it — 
return it if I may keep you from killing another Mormon.” 

1 11 tell you one thing,” he said, bluntly, as the gray light- 
ning formed in his eyes. “You’re too good a woman to be 
sacrificed as you’re goin’ to be. . . . No, I reckon you an’ me 
can’t be friends on such terms.” 

In her earnestness she stepped closer to him, repelled yet 
fascinated by the sudden transition of his moods. That he 
would fight for her was at once horrible and wonderful. 

“You came here to kill a man — the man whom Milly Erne — ” 

“The man who dragged Milly Erne to hell— put it that 
way! . . . Jane Withersteen, yes, that’s why I came here. I’d 
tell so much to no other livin’ soul. . . . There ’re things such a 
woman as you’d never dream of — so don’t mention her again. 
Not till you tell me the name of the man!” 

“Tell you! I? Never!” 

“I reckon you will. An’ I’ll never ask you. I’m a man of 
strange beliefs an’ ways of thinkin’, an’ I seem to see into the 
future an’ feel things hard to explain. The trail I’ve been fol- 
lowin’ for so many years was twisted an’ tangled, but it’s straight- 
enin’ out now. An’, Jane Withersteen, you crossed it long ago 
to ease poor Milly ’s agony. That, whether you want or not, 
makes Lassiter your friend. But you cross it now strangely to 
mean somethin’ to me — God knows what! — unless by your noble 
blindness to incite me to greater hatred of Mormon men.” 

Jane felt swayed by a strength that far exceeded her own. 
In a clash of wills with this man she would go to the wall. If 
she were to influence him it must be wholly through womanly 
allurement. There was that about Lassiter which commanded 
her respect; she had abhorred his name; face to face with him. 


74 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

she found she feared only his deeds. His mystic suggestion, his 
foreshadowing of something that she was to mean to him, pierced 
deep into her mind. She believed fate had thrown in her way 
the lover or husband of Milly Erne. She believed that through 
her an evil man might be reclaimed. His allusion to what he 
called her blindness terrified her. Such a mistaken idea of his 
might unleash the bitter, fatal mood she sensed in him. At any 
cost she must placate this man; she knew the die was cast, and 
that if Lassiter did not soften to a woman’s grace and beauty 
and wiles, then it would be because she could not make him. 

“I reckon you’ll hear no more such talk from me,” Lassiter 
went on, presently. “Now, Miss Jane, I rode in to tell you 
that your herd of white steers is down on the slope behind them 
big ridges. An’ I seen somethin’ goin’ on that ’d be mighty 
interestin’ to you, if you could see it. Have you a field-glass.^^ ” 

“Yes, I have two glasses. I’ll get them and ride out with 
you. Wait, Lassiter, please,” she said, and hurried within. 
Sending word to Jerd to saddle Black Star and fetch him to the 
court, she then went to her room and changed to the riding- 
clothes she always donned when going into the sage. In this 
male attire her mirror showed her a jaunty, handsome rider. 
If she expected some little meed of admiration from Lassiter, 
she had no cause for disappointment. The gentle smile that she 
liked, which made of him another person, slowly overspread his 
face. 

“If I didn’t take you for a boy!” he exclaimed. “It’s power- 
ful queer what difference clothes make. Now I’ve been some 
scared of your dignity, like when the other night you was all in 
white, but in this rig — ” 

Black Star came poimding into the court, dragging Jerd half 
off his feet, and he whistled at Lassiter’s black. But at sight 
of Jane all his defiant lines seemed to soften, and with tosses of 
his beautiful head he whipped his bridle. 


75 


THE MILL-WHEEL OF STEERS 

“Down, Black Star, down,” said Jane. 

He dropped his head, and, slowly lengthening, he bent one 
fore leg, then the other, and sank to his knees. Jane slipped 
her left foot in the stirrup, swung lightly into the saddle, and 
Black Star rose with a ringing stamp. It was not easy for Jane 
to hold him to a canter through the grove, and like the wind he 
broke when he saw the sage. Jane let him have a couple of miles 
of free running on the open trail, and then she coaxed him in 
and waited for her companion. Lassiter was not long in catch- 
ing up, and presently they were riding side by side. It reminded 
her how she used to ride with Venters. Where was he now.^ 
She gazed far down the slope to the curved purple lines of De- 
ception Pass, and involuntarily shut her eyes with a trembling 
stir of nameless fear. 

“We’ll turn off here,” Lassiter said, “an’ take to the sage a 
mile or so. The white herd is behind them big ridges.” 

“What are you going to show me?” asked Jane. “I’m 
prepared — don’t be afraid.” 

He smiled as if he meant that bad news came swiftly enough 
without being presaged by speech. 

WThen they reached the lee of a rolling ridge Lassiter dis- 
mounted, motioning to her to do likewise. They left the horses 
standing, bridles down. Then Lassiter, carrying the field- 
glasses, began to lead the way up the slow rise of ground. Upon 
nearing the summit he halted her with a gestme. 

“I reckon we’d see more if we didn’t show ourselves against 
the sky,” he said. “ I was here less than a hour ago. Then the herd 
was seven or eight miles south, an’ if they ain’t bolted yet — ” 

“Lassiter! . . . Bolted?” 

“That’s what I said. Now let’s see.” 

Jane climbed a few more paces behind him and then peeped 
over the ridge. Just beyond began a shallows wale that deepened 
and widened into a valley, and then swimg to the left. Follow- 


76 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


ing the undulating sweep of sage, Jane saw the straggling lines 
and then the great body of the white herd. She knew enough 
about steers, even at a distance of four or five miles, to realize 
that something was in the wind. Bringing her field-glass into 
use she moved it slowly from left to right, which action swept 
the whole herd into range. The stragglers were restless; the 
more compactly massed steers were browsing. Jane brought 
the glass back to the big sentinels of the herd, and she saw them 
trot with quick steps, stop short and toss wide horns, look every- 
where, and then trot in another direction. 

“Judkins hasn’t been able to get his boys together yet,” 
said Jane. “But he’ll be there soon. I hope not too late. 
Lassiter, what’s frightening those big leaders.?” 

“Nothin’ jest on the minute,” replied Lassiter. “Them 
steers are quietin’ down. They’ve been scared, but not bad yet. 
I reckon the whole herd has moved a few miles this way since I 
was here.” 

“They didn’t browse that distance — not in less than an hour. 
Cattle aren’t sheep.” 

“No, they jest run it, an’ that looks bad.” 

“Lassiter, what frightened them.?” repeated Jane, impatiently. 

“Put down your glass. You’ll see at first better with a 
naked eye. Now look along them ridges on the other side of the 
herd, the ridges where the sun shines bright on the sage. . . . 
That’s right. Now look an’ look hard, an’ wait.” 

Long-drawn moments of straining sight rewarded Jane with 
nothing save the low, purple rim of ridge and the shimmering 
sage. 

“It’s begun again!” whispered Lassiter, and he gripped her 
arm. “Watch. . . . There, did you see that.?” 

“No, no. Tell me what to look for.” 

“A white flash — a kind of pin-point of quick light — a gleam 
as from sun shinin’ on somethin’ white.” 


THE MILL-WHEEL OF STEEKS 


77 


Suddenly Jane’s concentrated gaze caught a fleeting glint. 
Quickly she brought her glass to bear on the spot. Again the 
purple sage, magnified in color and size and wave, for long mo- 
ments irritated her with its monotony. Then from out of the 
sage on the ridge flew up a broad, white object, flashed in the 
sunlight, and vanished. Like magic it was, and bewildered 
Jane. 

“What on earth is that?” 

“I reckon there’s some one behind the ridge thro win’ up a 
sheet or a white blanket to reflect the sunshine.” 

“Why?” queried Jane, more bewildered than ever. 

“To stampede the herd,” replied Lassiter, and his teeth 
clicked. 

“Ah!” She made a fierce, passionate movement, clutched 
the glass tightly, shook as with the passing of a spasm, and then 
dropped her head. Presently she raised it to greet Lassiter with 
something like a smile. 

“My righteous brethren are at work again,” she said, in 
scorn. She had stifled the leap of her wrath, but for perhaps 
the first time in her life a bitter derision curled her lips. Las- 
siter’s cool gray eyes seemed to pierce her. “I said I was pre- 
pared for anything; but that was hardly true. But why would 
they — anybody stampede my cattle?” 

“That’s a Mormon’s godly way of bringin’ a woman to her 
knees.” 

“Lassiter, I’ll die before I ever bend my knees. I might be 
led: I won’t be driven. Do you expect the herd to bolt?” 

“I don’t like the looks of them big steers. But you can 
never tell. Cattle sometimes stampede as easily as buffalo. 
Any little flash or move will start them. A rider gettin’ down 
an’ walkin’ toward them sometimes will make them jump an’ 
fly. Then again nothin’ seems to scare them. But I reckon 
that white flare will do the biz. It’s a new one on me, an’ I’ve 


78 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

seen some ridin’ an’ rustlin’. It jest takes one of them God- 
fearin’ Mormons to think of devilish tricks.” 

“Lassiter, might not this trick be done by Oldring’s men?” 
asked Jane, ever grasping at straws. 

“It might be, but it ain’t,” replied Lassiter. “Oldrin’s an 
honest thief. He don’t skulk behind ridges to scatter your cattle 
to the four winds. He rides down on you, an’ if you don’t like 
it you can throw a gun.” 

Jane bit her tongue to refrain from championing men who 
at the very moment were proving to her that they were little and 
mean compared even with rustlers. 

“Look! . . . Jane, them leadin’ steers have bolted! They’re 
drawin’ the stragglers, an’ that ’ll pull the whole herd.” 

Jane was not quick enough to catch the details called out by 
Lassiter, but she saw the line of cattle lengthening. Then, like 
a stream of white bees pouring from a huge swarm, the steers 
stretched out from the main body. In a few moments, with 
astonishing rapidity, the whole herd got into motion. A faint 
roar of trampling hoofs came to Jane’s ears, and gradually swelled; 
low, rolling clouds of dust began to rise above the sage. 

“It’s a stampede, an’ a hummer,” said Lassiter. 

“Oh, Lassiter! The herd’s running with the valley! It 
leads into the canon! There’s a straight jump-off!” 

“I reckon they’ll run into it, too. But that’s a good many 
miles yet. An’, Jane, this valley swings round almost north 
before it goes east. That stampede will pass within a mile 
of us.” 

The long, white, bobbing line of steers streaked swiftly 
through the sage, and a funnel-shaped dust-cloud arose at a low 
angle. A dull rumbling filled Jane’s ears. 

“I’m thinkin’ of millin’ that herd,” said Lassiter. His gray 
glance swept up the slope to the west. “There’s some specks 
an’ dust way off toward the village. Mebbe that’s Judkins 



“what on earth is that?” 






THE MILL-WHEEL OF STEERS 79 

an’ his boys. It ain’t likely he’ll get here in time to help. You’d 
better hold Black Star here on this high ridge.” 

He ran to his horse, and, throwing off saddle-bags and tighten- 
ing the cinches, he leaped astride and galloped straight down 
across the valley. 

Jane went for Black Star, and, leading him to the summit 
of the ridge, she mounted and faced the valley with excitement 
and expectancy. She had heard of milling stampeded cattle, 
and knew it was a feat accomplished by only the most daring 
riders. 

The white herd was now strung out in a line two miles long. 
The dull rumble of thousands of hoofs deepened into continuous 
low thunder, and as the steers swept swiftly closer the thunder 
became a heavy roll. Lassiter crossed in a few moments the 
level of the valley to the eastern rise of ground and there waited 
the coming of the herd. Presently, as the head of the white 
line reached a point opposite to where Jane stood, Lassiter spurred 
his black into a run. 

Jane saw him take a position on the off side of the leaders 
of the stampede, and there he rode. It was like a race. They 
swept on down the valley, and when the end of the white line 
neared Lassiter’s first stand the head had begun to swing round 
to the west. It swung slowly and stubbornly, yet surely, and 
gradually assumed a long, beautiful curve of moving white. To 
Jane’s amaze she saw the leaders swinging, turning till they 
headed back toward her and up the valley. Out to the right 
of these wild, plunging steers ran Lassiter’s black, and Jane’s 
keen eye appreciated the fieet stride and sure-footedness of the 
blind horse. Then it seemed that the herd moved in a great 
curve, a huge half-moon, with the points of head and tail almost 
opposite, and a mile apart. But Lassiter relentlessly crowded 
the leaders, sheering them to the left, turning them little by 
little. And the dust-blinded wild followers plunged on madly 


80 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

in tlie tracks of their leaders. This ever-moving, ever-changing 
curve of steers rolled toward Jane, and when below her, scarce 
half a mile, it began to narrow and close into a circle. Lassiter 
had ridden parallel with her position, turned toward her, then 
aside, and now he was riding directly away from her, all the time 
pushing the head of that bobbing line inward. ^ ^ 

It was then that Jane, suddenly understanding Lassiter’s 
feat, stared and gasped at the riding of this intrepid man. His 
horse was fleet and tireless, but blind. He had pushed the 
leaders around and around till they were about to turn in on 
the inner side of the end of that line of steers. The leaders were 
already running in a circle; the end of the herd was still running 
almost straight. But soon they would be wheeling. Then, 
when Lassiter had the circle formed, how would he escape? 
With Jane Withersteen prayer was as ready as praise; and she 
prayed for this man’s safety. A circle of dust bepn to collect. 
Dimly, as through a yellow veil, Jane saw Lassiter press the 
leaders inward to close the gap in the sage. She lost sight of 
him in the dust; again she thought she saw the black, riderless 
now, rear and drag himself and fall. Lassiter had been thrown 
lost! Then he reappeared running out of the dust into the sage. 
He had escaped, and she breathed again. 

Spell-bound, Jane Withersteen watched this stupendous 
mill-wheel of steers. Here was the milling of the herd. The 
white running circle closed in upon the open space of sage. And 
the dust circles closed above into a pall. The ground quaked 
and the incessant thunder of pounding hoofs rolled on. Jane felt 
deafened, yet she thrilled to a new sound. As the circle of 
sage lessened the steers began to bawl, and when it closed entirely 
there came a great upheaval in the center, and a terrible thump- 
ing of heads and clicking of horns. Bawling, climbing, gorging, 
the great mass of steers on the inside wrestled in a crashing din, 
heaved and groaned under the pressure. Then came a dead- 


THE MILL-WHEEL OF STEERS 81 

lock. The inner strife ceased, and the hideous roar and crash. 
Movement went on in the outer circle, and that, too, gradually 
stilled. The white herd had come to a stop, and the pall of 
yellow dust began to drift away on the wind. 

Jane Withersteen waited on the ridge with full and grateful 
heart. Lassiter appeared, making his weary way toward her 
through the sage. And up on the slope Judkins rode into sight 
with his troop of boys. For the present, at least, the white 
herd would be looked after. 

When Lassiter reached her and laid his hand on Black Star’s 
mane, Jane could not find speech. 

“Killed — my — ^hoss,” he panted. 

“Oh! I’m sorry,” cried Jane. “Lassiter! I know you 
can t replace him, but I’ll give you any one of my racers — ^Bells, 
or Night, even Black Star.” 

“I’ll take a fast boss, Jane, but not one of your favorites,” 
he replied. Only will you let me have Black Star now an’ 
ride him over there an’ head off them fellers who stampeded the 
herd.?” 

He pointed to several moving specks of black and puffs of 
dust in the purple sage. 

“I can head them off with this hoss, an’ then — ” 

“Then, Lassiter?” 

“They’ll never stampede no more cattle.” 

“Oh! No! No! . . . Lassiter, I won’t let you go!” 

But a flush of fire flamed in her cheeks, and her trembling 
hands shook Black Star’s bridle, and her eyes fell before Lassiter’s. 


CHAPTER Vn 


THE DAUGHTEK OF WITHEESTEEN 

‘‘T ASSITER, will you be my rider?” Jane had asked him. 

1 ^ “I reckon so,” he had replied. 

Few as the words were, Jane knew how infinitely much they 
implied. She wanted him to take charge of her cattle and horses 
and ranges, and save them if that were possible. Yet, though 
she could not have spoken aloud all she meant, she was perfectly 
honest with herself. Whatever the price to be paid, she must 
keep Lassiter close to her; she must shield from him the man 
who had lured Milly Erne to Cottonwoods. In her fear she so 
controlled her mind that she did not whisper this Mormon’s 
name to her own soul, she did not even think it. Besides, be- 
yond this thing she regarded as a sacred obligation thrust upon 
her, was the need of a helper, of a friend, of a champion in this 
critical time. If she could rule this gun-man, as Venters had 
called him, if she could even keep him from shedding blood, 
what strategy to play his name and his presence against the 
game of oppression her churchmen were waging against her? 
Never would she forget the effect upon Tull and his men when 
Venters shouted Lassiter’s name. If she could not wholly control 
Lassiter, then what she could do might put off the fatal day. 

One of her sage racers was a dark bay, and she called him 
Bells because of the way he struck his iron shoes on the stones. 
When Jerd led out this slender, beautifully built horse Lassiter 
suddenly became all eyes. A rider’s love of a thoroughbred 


THE DAUGHTER OF WITHERSTEEN 83 

shone in them. Round and round Bells he walked, plainly 
weakenmg all the time in his determination not to take one of 
Jane’s favorite racers. 

“Lassiter, you’re half horse, and Bells sees it already,” said 
Jane, laughing. “Look at his eyes. He likes you. He’ll love 
you, too. How can you resist him.?^ Oh, Lassiter, but Bells 
can run ! It s nip and tuck between him and Wrangle, and only 
Black Star can beat him. He’s too spirited a horse for a woman. 
Take him. He’s yours.’’ 

I jest am weak where a boss’s concerned,” said Lassiter. 
“I’ll take him, an’ I’ll take your orders, ma’am.” 

“Well, I’m glad, but never mind the ma’am. Let it still be 
Jane.” 

From that hour, it seemed, Lassiter was always in the saddle, 
riding early and late; and coincident with his part in Jane’s 
affairs the days assumed their old tranquillity. Her intelligence 
told her this was only the lull before the storm, but her faith 
would not have it so. 

She resumed her visits to the village, and upon one of these 
she encountered Tull. He greeted her as he had before any 
trouble came between them, and she, responsive to peace if not 
quick to forget, met him half-way with manner almost cheerful. 
He regretted the loss of her cattle; he assured her that the vigi- 
lantes which had been organized would soon rout the rustlers; 
when that had been accomplished her riders would likely return 
to her. 

“You’ve done a headstrong thing to hire this man Lassiter,” 
Tull went on, severely. “He came to Cottonwoods with evil 
intent.” 

“I had to have somebody. And perhaps making him my 
rider may turn out best in the end for the Mormons of 
Cottonwoods.” 

“You mean to stay his hand?” 


84 


EIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


‘T do—if I can.’’ 

woman like you can do anything with a man. That 
would be well, and would atone in some measure for the errors 
you have made.” 

He bowed and passed on. Jane resumed her walk with 
conflicting thoughts. She resented Elder TulFs cold, impassive 
manner that looked down upon her as one who had incurred his 
just displeasure. Otherwise he would have been the same calm, 
dark-browed, impenetrable man she had known for ten years. 
In fact, except when he had revealed his passion in the matter 
of the seizing of Venters, she had never dreamed he could be 
other than the grave, reproving preacher. He stood out now a 
strange, secretive man. She would have thought better of him 
if he had picked up the threads of their quarrel where they had 
parted. Was Tull what he appeared to be.^ The question flung 
itself involuntarily over Jane Withersteen’s inhibitive habit of 
faith without question. And she refused to answer it. Tull 
could not fight in the open. Venters had said, Lassiter had said, 
that her Elder shirked fight and worked in the dark. Just now 
in this meeting Tull had ignored the fact that he had sued, ex- 
horted, demanded that she marry him. He made no mention 
of Venters. His manner was that of the minister who had been 
outraged, but who overlooked the frailties of a woman. Beyond 
question he seemed unutterably aloof from all knowledge of 
pressure being brought to bear upon her, absolutely guiltless of 
any connection with secret power over riders, with night journeys, 
with rustlers and stampedes of cattle. And that convinced her 
again of unjust suspicions. But it was convincement through an 
obstinate faith. She shuddered as she accepted it; and that 
shudder was the nucleus of a terrible revolt. 

Jane turned into one of the wide lanes leading from the main 
street and entered a huge, shady yard. Here were sweet-smelling 
clover, alfalfa, flowers, and vegetables, all growing in happy 


THE DAUGHTER OF WITHERSTEEN 85 


confusion. And like these fresh green things were the dozens 
of babies, tots, toddlers, noisy urchins, laughing girls, a whole 
multitude of children of one family. For Collier Brandt, the 
father of all this numerous progeny, was a Mormon with four 
wives. 

The big house where they lived was old, solid, picturesque, 
the lower part built of logs, the upper of rough clapboards, with 
vines growing up the outside stone chinmeys. There were many 
wooden-shuttered windows, and one pretentious window of glass, 
proudly curtained in white. As this house had four mistresses, it 
likewise had four separate sections, not one of which communi- 
cated with another, and all had to be entered from the outside. 

In the shade of a wide, low, vine-roofed porch Jane found 
Brandt’s wives entertaining Bishop Dyer. They were motherly 
women, of comparatively similar ages, and plain-featured, and 
just at this moment anything but grave. The Bishop was rather 
tall, of stout build, with iron-gray hair and beard, and eyes of 
light blue. They were merry now; but Jane had seen them when 
they were not, and then she feared him as she had feared her 
father. 

The women flocked around her in welcome. 

‘‘Daughter of Withersteen,” said the Bishop, gaily, as he 
took her hand, “you have not been prodigal of your gracious 
self of late. A Sabbath without you at service! I shall reprove 
Elder Tull.” 

“Bishop, the guilt is mine. I’ll come to you and confess,” 
Jane replied, lightly; but she felt the undercurrent of her words. 

“Mormon love-making!” exclaimed the Bishop, rubbing his 
hands. “Tull keeps you all to himself.” 

“No. He is not courting me.” 

“What? The laggard! If he does not make haste I’ll go 
a-courting myself up to Withersteen House.” 

There was laughter and further bantering by the Bishop, and 


86 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


then mild talk of village affairs, after which he took his leave, 
and Jane was left with her friend Mary Brandt. 

“Jane, you’re not yourself. Are you sad about the rustling 
of the cattle.^ But you have so many; you are so rich.” 

Then Jane confided in her, telling much, yet holding back 
her doubts and fears. 

“Oh, why don’t you marry Tull and be one of us.?^” 

“But, Mary, I don’t love Tull,” said Jane, stubbornly. 

“I don’t blame you for that. But, Jane Withersteen, you’ve 
got to choose between the love of man and love of God. Often 
we Mormon women have to do that. It’s not easy. The kind 
of happiness you want I wanted once. I never got it, nor will 
you, unless you throw away your soul. We’ve all watched your 
affair with Venters in fear and trembling. Some dreadful thing 
will come of it. You don’t want him hanged or shot — or treated 
worse, as that Gentile boy was treated in Glaze for fooling round 
a Mormon woman. Marry Tull. It’s your duty as a Mormon. 
You’ll feel no rapture as his wife — ^but think of Heaven! Mor- 
mon women don’t marry for what they expect on earth. Take 
up the cross, Jane. Remember your father found Amber Spring, 
built these old houses, brought Mormons here, and fathered 
them. You are the daughter of Withersteen!” 

Jane left Mary Brandt and went to call upon other friends. 
They received her with the same glad welcome as had Mary, 
lavished upon her the pent-up affection of Mormon women, and 
let her go with her ears ringing of Tull, Venters, Lassiter, of duty 
to God and glory in Heaven. 

“Verily,” murmured Jane, “I don’t know myself when, 
through all this, I remain unchanged — nay, more fixed of purpose.” 

She returned to the main street and bent her thoughtful 
steps toward the center of the village. A string of wagons drawn 
by oxen was lumbering along. These “sage-freighters,” as they 
were called, hauled grain and flour and merchandise from Sterling; 


THE DAUGHTER OF WITHERSTEEN 87 


and Jane laughed suddenly in the midst of her humility at the 
thought that they were her property, as was one of the three 
stores for which they freighted goods. The water that flowed 
along the path at her feet, and turned into each cottage-yard 
to nourish garden and orchard, also was hers, no less her private 
property because she chose to give it free. Yet in this village 
of Cottonwoods, which her father had foimded and which she 
maintained, she was not her own mistress; she was not to abide 
by her own choice of a husband. She was the daughter of Wither- 
steen. Suppose she proved it, imperiously! But she quelled 
that proud temptation at its birth. 

Nothing could have replaced the affection which the village 
people had for her; no power could have made her happy as the 
pleasure her presence gave. As she went on down the street, 
past the stores with their rude ptetfonn ^tranees, and the saloons, 
where tired hqrs^^V^tbbd, ydth bridles dragging, she was again 
assured of .what was^ the'bread and wine of life to her — ^that she 
was loybd. Dirty boys playing in the ditch, clerks, teamsters, 
rid#s* loungers on the corners, ranchers on dusty horses, little 
^%iris running errands, and women hurrying to the stores all looked 
up at her coming with glad eyes. 

Jane’s various calls and wandering steps at length led her to 
the Gentile quarter of the village. This was at the extreme 
southern end, and here some thirty Gentile families lived in huts 
and shacks and log-cabins and several dilapidated cottages. The 
fortunes of these inhabitants of Cottonwoods could be read in 
their abodes. Water they had in abundance, and therefore 
grass and fruit-trees and patches of alfalfa and vegetable gardens. 
Some of the men and boys had a few stray cattle, others obtained 
such intermittent employment as the Mormons reluctantly 
tendered them. But none of the families was prosperous, many 
Were very poor; and some lived only by Jane Withersteens 

beneficence, v . 

7 ‘ 



88 


HIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

As it made Jane happy to go among her own people, so it 
saddened her to come in contact with these Gentiles. Yet that 
was not because she was unwelcome; here she was gratefully 
received by the women, passionately by the children. But 
poverty and idleness, with their attendant wretchedness and 
sorrow, always hurt her. That she could alleviate this distress 
more now than ever before proved the adage that it was an ill 
wind that blew nobody good. While her Mormon riders were in 
her employ she had found few Gentiles who could stay with her, 
and now she was able to find employment for all the men and 
boys. No little shock was it to have man after man tell her that 
he dare not accept her kind offer. 

‘ It won’t do,” said one Carson, an intelligent man who had 
seen better days. “We’ve had our warning. Plain and to the 
point! Now there’s Judkins, he packs guns, and he can use 
them, and so can the daredevil boys he’s hired. But they’ve 
little responsibility. Can we risk having our homes burned in 
our absence.^” 

Jane felt the stretching and chilling of the skin of her face 
as the blood left it. 

“Carson, you and the others rent these houses.?” she asked. 

“You ought to loiow. Miss Withersteen. Some of them are 
yours.” 

“I know.? . . . Carson, I never in my life took a day’s labor 
for rent or a yearling calf or a bunch of grass, let alone gold.” 

“Bivens, your store-keeper, sees to that.” 

Look here, Carson,” went on Jane, hurriedly, and now her 
cheeks were burning. “You and Black and Willet pack your 
goods and move your families up to my cabins in the grove. 
They’re far more comfortable than these. Then go to work for 

me. And if aught happens to you there I’ll give you money 

gold enough to leave Utah!” 

The man choked and stammered, and then, as tears welled 


THE DAUGHTER OF WITHERSTEEN 89 


into his eyes, he found the use of his tongue and cursed. No 
gentle speech could ever have equaled that curse in eloquent 
expression of what he felt for Jane Withersteen. How strangely 
his look and tone reminded her of Lassiter! 

“No, it won’t do,” he said, when he had somewhat recovered 
himseK. “Miss Withersteen, there are things that you don’t 
know, and there’s not a soul among us who can tell you.” 

“I seem to be learning many things, Carson. Well, then, 
will you let me aid you — say till better times 

“Yes, I will,” he replied, with his face lighting up. “I see 
what it means to you, and you know what it means to me. Thank 
you! And if better times ever come I’ll be only too happy to 
work for you.” 

“Better times will come. I trust God and have faith in man. 
Good day, Carson.” 

The lane opened out upon the sage-inclosed alfalfa fields, 
and the last habitation, at the end of that lane of hovels, was the 
meanest. Formerly it had been a shed; now it was a home. 
The broad leaves of a wide-spreading cottonwood sheltered the 
sunken roof of weathered boards. Like an Indian but, it had 
one door. Round about it were a few scanty rows of vegetables, 
such as the hand of a weak woman had time and strength to 
cultivate. This little dwelling-place was just outside the village 
limits, and the widow who lived there had to carry her water 
from the nearest irrigation ditch. As Jane Withersteen entered 
the unfenced yard a child saw her, shrieked with joy, and came 
tearing toward her with curls flying. This child was a little 
girl of four called Fay. Her name suited her, for she was an elf, 
a sprite, a creature so fairy-like and beautiful that she seemed 
unearthly. 

“Muwer sended for oo,” cried Fay, as Jane kissed her, “an’ 
oo never tome.” 

“I didn’t know. Fay; but I’ve come now.” 


90 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


Fay was a child of outdoors, of the garden and ditch and 
field, and she was dirty and ragged. But rags and dirt did not 
hide her beauty. The one thin little bedraggled garment she 
wore half covered her fine, slim body. Red as cherries were her 
cheeks and lips; her eyes were violet blue, and the crown of her 
childish loveliness was the curling golden hair. All the children 
of Cottonwoods were Jane Withersteen’s friends; she loved them 
all. But Fay was dearest to her. Fay had few playmates, for 
among the Gentile children there were none near her age, and 
the Mormon children were forbidden to play with her. So she 
was a shy, wild, lonely child. 

“Muvver’s sick,” said Fay, leading Jane toward the door 
of the hut. 

Jane went in. There was only one room, rather dark and 
bare, but it was clean and neat. A woman lay upon a bed. 

“Mrs. Larkin, how are you.^” asked Jane, anxiously. 

“IVe been pretty bad for a week, but I’m better now.” 

“You haven’t been here all alone — with no one to wait on 
you?” 

“Oh, no! My women neighbors are kind. They take turns 
coming in.” 

“Did you send for me?” 

“Yes, several times.” 

“But I had no word — ^no messages ever got to me.” 

“I sent the boys, and they left word with your women that 
I was ill and would you please come.” 

A sudden deadly sickness seized Jane. She fought the weak- 
ness, as she fought to be above suspicious thoughts, and it passed, 
leaving her conscious of her utter impotence. That, too, passed 
as her spirit rebounded. But she had again caught a glimpse 
of dark underhand domination, running its secret lines this time 
into her own household. Like a spider in the blackness of night 
an unseen hand had begun to run these dark lines, to turn and 


THE DAUGHTER OF WITHERSTEEN 91 

twist them about her life, to plait and weave a web. Jane Wither- 
steen knew it now, and in the realization further coolness and 
sureness came to her, and the fighting courage of her ancestors. 

“Mrs. Larkin, you’re better, and I’m so glad,” said Jane. 
“But may I not do something for you — a turn at nursing, or 
send you things, or take care of Fay.?” 

You re so good. Since my husband’s been gone what 
would have become of Fay and me but for you? It was about 
Fay that I wanted to speak to you. This time I thought surely 
I’d die, and I was worried about Fay. Well, I’ll be around all 
right shortly, but my strength’s gone and I won’t live long. So 
I may as well speak now. You remember you’ve been asking 
me to let you take Fay and bring her up as your daughter?” 

“Indeed yes, I remember. I’ll be happy to have her. But 
I hope the day — ” 

“Never mind that. The day ’ll come — sooner or later. I 
refused your offer, and now I’ll tell you why.” 

“I know why,” interposed Jane. “It’s because you don’t 
want her brought up as a Mormon.” 

“No, it wasn’t altogether that.” Mrs. Larkin raised her 
thin hand and laid it appealingly on Jane’s. “I don’t like to 
tell you. But — it’s this : I told all my friends what you wanted. 
They know you, care for you, and they said for me to trust Fay 
to you. Women will talk, you know. It got to the ears of 
Mormons — ^gossip of your love for Fay and your wanting her. 
And it came straight back to me, in jealousy perhaps, that you 
wouldn’t take Fay as much for love of her as because of your 
religious duty to bring up another girl for some Mormon to 
marry.” 

“That’s a damnable lie!” cried Jane Withersteen. 

“It was what made me hesitate,” went on Mrs. Larkin, “but 
I never believed it at heart. And now I guess I’ll let you — ” 

“Wait! Mrs. Larkin, I may have told little white lies in 


92 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


my life, but never a lie that mattered, that hurt any one. Now 
believe me. I love little Fay. If I had her near me I’d grow 
to worship her. When I asked for her I thought only of that 
love. . . . Let me prove this. You and Fay come to live with 
me. I’ve such a big house, and I’m so lonely. I’ll help nurse 
you, take care of you. When you’re better you can work for 
me. I’ll keep little Fay and bring her up — without Mormon 
teaching. When she’s grown, if she should want to leave me. 
I’ll send her, and not empty-handed, back to Illinois where you 
came from. I promise you.” 

‘T knew it was a lie,” replied the mother, and she sank back 
upon her pillow with something of peace in her white, worn face. 
“Jane Withersteen, may Heaven bless you! I’ve been deeply 
grateful to you. But because you’re a Mormon I never felt 
close to you till now. I don’t know much about religion as 
religion, but your God and my God are the same.” 


CHAPTER Vin 


SURPRISE VALLEY 

B ack in the strange canon, which Venters had found in- 
deed a valley of surprises, the wounded girl’s whispered 
appeal, almost a prayer, not to take her back to the rustlers 
crowned the events of the last few days with a confounding 
climax. That she should not want to return to them staggered 
Venters. Presently, as logical thought returned, her appeal con- 
firmed his first impression — that she was more unfortunate than 
bad — and he experienced a sensation of gladness. If he had 
known before that Oldring’s Masked Rider was a woman his 
opinion would have been formed and he would have considered 
her abandoned. But his first knowledge had come when he 
lifted a white face quivering in a convulsion of agony; he had 
heard God’s name whispered by blood-stained lips; through her 
solenrn and awful eyes he had caught a glimpse of her soul. And 
just now had come the entreaty to him; “Don’t — take — ^me — 
back — there!” 

Once for all Venters’s quick mind formed a permanent con- 
ception of this poor girl. He based it, not upon what the chances 
of life had made her, but upon the revelation of dark eyes that 
pierced the infinite, upon a few pitiful, halting words that be- 
trayed failure and wrong and misery, yet breathed the truth of 
a tragic fate rather than a natural leaning to evil. 

“What’s your name.^” he inquired. 


94 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

“Bess,” she answered. 

“Bess what?” 

“That’s enough — ^just Bess.” 

The red that deepened in her cheeks was not all the flush 
of fever. Venters marveled anew, and this time at the tint of 
shame in her face, at the momentary drooping of long lashes. 
She might be a rustler’s girl, but she was still capable of shame; 
she might be dying, but she still clung to some little remnant of 
honor. 

“Very well, Bess. It doesn’t matter,” he said. “But this 
matters — what shall I do with you?” 

“Are — ^you — a rider?” she whispered. 

“Not now. I was once. I drove the Withersteen herds. 
But I lost my place — lost all I owned — and now I’m — I’m a sort 
of outcast. My name’s Bern Venters.” 

“You won’t — ^take me — to Cottonwoods — or Glaze? I’d be — 
hanged.” 

“No, indeed. But I must do something with you. For it’s 
not safe for me here. I shot that rustler who was with you. 
Sooner or later he’ll be found, and then my tracks. I must find 
a safer hiding-place where I can’t be trailed.” 

“Leave me — ^here.” 

“Alone — to die!” 

“Yes.” 

“I will not.” Venters spoke shortly with a kind of ring in 
his voice. 

“What— do you want— to do— with me?” Her whispering 
grew difficult, so low and faint that Venters had to stoop to hear 
her. 

“Why, let’s see,” he replied, slowly. “I’d like to take you 
some place where I could watch by you, nurse you, till you’re 
all right again.” 

“And— then?” 


SURPRISE VALLEY 95 

*‘Well, it ’ll be time to think of that when you’re cured of 
your wound. It’s a bad one. And — ^Bess, if you don’t want to 
live — if you don’t fight for life — ^you’ll never — ” 

“Oh! I want — to live! I’m afraid — to die. But I’d rather 
— die — than go back — to — to — ” 

“To Oldring?” asked Venters, interrupting her in turn. 

Her lips moved in an affirmative. 

“I promise not to take you back to him or to Cottonwoods 
or to Glaze.” 

The mournful earnestness of her gaze suddenly shone with 
unutterable gratitude and wonder. And as suddenly Venters 
found her eyes beautiful as he had never seen or felt beauty. 
They were as dark-blue as the sky at night. Then the flas hin g 
changed to a long, thoughtful look, in which there was wistful, 
unconscious searching of his face, a look that trembled on the 
verge of hope and trust. 

“I’ll try — to live,” she said. The broken whisper just reached 
his ears. “Do what — ^you want — with me.” 

“Rest then — don’t worry — sleep,” he replied. 

Abruptly he arose, as if her words had been decision for him, 
and with a sharp command to the dogs he strode from the camp. 
Venters was conscious of an indefinite conflict of change within 
him. It seemed to be a vague passing of old moods, a dim coales- 
cing of new forces, a moment of inexplicable transition. He 
was both cast down and uplifted. He wanted to think and 
think of the meaning, but he resolutely dispelled emotion. His 
imperative need at present was to find a safe retreat, and this 
called for action. 

So he set out. It still wanted several hours before dark. 
This trip he turned to the left and wended his skulking way 
southward a mile or more to the opening of the valley, where lay 
the strange scrawled rocks. He did not, however, venture boldly 
out into the open sage, but clung to the right-hand wall and went 


96 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

along that till its perpendicular line broke into the long incline of 
bare stone. 

Before proceeding farther he halted, studying the strange 
character of this slope and realizing that a moving black object 
could be seen far against such background. Before him ascended 
a gradual swell of smooth stone. It was hard, polished, and 
full of pockets worn by centuries of eddying rain-water. A 
hundred yards up began a line of grotesque cedar-trees, and they 
extended along the slope clear to its most southerly end. Beyond 
that end Venters wanted to get, and he concluded the cedars, 
few as they were, would afford some cover. 

Therefore he climbed swiftly. The trees were farther up than 
he had estimated, though he had from long habit made allowance 
for the deceiving nature of distances in that country. When 
he gained the cover of cedars he paused to rest and look, and it 
was then he saw how the trees sprang from holes in the bare rock. 
Ages of rain had run down the slope, circling, eddying in de- 
pressions, wearing deep round holes. There had been dry seasons, 
accumulations of dust, wind-blown seeds, and cedars rose wonder- 
fully out of solid rock. But these were not beautiful cedars. 
They were gnarled, twisted into weird contortions, as if growth 
were torture, dead at the tops, shrunken, gray, and old. Theirs 
had been a bitter fight, and Venters felt a strange sympathy for 
them. This country was hard on trees — and men. 

He slipped from cedar to cedar, keeping them between him 
and the open valley. As he progressed, the belt of trees widened, 
and he kept to its upper margin. He passed shady pockets half 
full of water, and, as he marked the location for possible future 
need, he reflected that there had been no rain since the winter 
snows. From one of these shady holes a rabbit hopped out and 
squatted down, laying its ears flat. 

Venters wanted fresh meat now more than when he had only 
himself to think of. But it would not do to fire his rifle there. 


SURPRISE VALLEY 


97 


So he broke off a cedar branch and threw it. He crippled the 
rabbit, which started to flounder up the slope. Venters did not 
wish to lose the meat, and he never allowed crippled game to 
escape, to die lingeringly in some covert. So after a careful 
glance below, and back toward the canon, he began to chase the 
rabbit. 

The fact that rabbits generally ran uphill was not new to 
him. But it presently seemed singular why this rabbit, that 
might have escaped downward, chose to ascend the slope. Venters 
knew then that it had a burrow higher up. More than once he 
jerked over to seize it, only in vain, for the rabbit by renewed 
effort eluded his grasp. Thus the chase continued on up the 
bare slope. The farther Venters climbed the more determined 
he grew to catch his quarry. At last, panting and sweating, he 
captured the rabbit at the foot of a steeper grade. Laying his 
rifle on the bulge of rising stone, he killed the animal and slung 
it from his belt. 

Before starting down he waited to catch his breath. He had 
climbed far up that wonderful smooth slope, and had almost 
reached the base of yellow cliff, that rose skyward, a huge scarred 
and cracked bulk. It frowned down upon him as if to forbid 
further ascent. Venters bent over for his rifle, and, as he picked 
it up from where it leaned against the steeper grade, he saw several 
little nicks cut in the solid stone. 

They were only a few inches deep and about a foot apart. 
Venters began to count them — one — two — three — four — on up 
to sixteen. That number carried his glance to the top of this 
first bulging bench of cliff-base. Above, after a more level off- 
set, was still steeper slope, and the line of nicks kept on, to wind 
round a projecting corner of wall. 

A casual glance would have passed by these little dents; if 
Venters had not known what they signified he would never have 
bestowed upon them the second glance. But he knew they had 


98 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


been cut there by hand, and, though age-worn, he recognized 
them as steps cut in the rock by the cliff-dwellers. With a pulse 
beginning to beat and hammer away his calmness, he eyed that 
indistinct line of steps, up to where the buttress of wall hid 
further sight of them. He knew that behind the corner of stone 
would be a cave or a crack which could never be suspected from 
below. Chance, that had sported with him of late, now directed 
him to a probable hiding-place. Again he laid aside his rifle, 
and, removing boots and belt, he began to walk up the steps. 
Like a mountain goat, he was agile, sure-footed, and he mounted 
the first bench without bending to use his hands. The next 
ascent took grip of fingers as well as toes, but he elimbed steadily, 
swiftly, to reach the projecting corner, and slipped around it. 
Here he faced a notch in the cliff. At the apex he turned 
abruptly into a ragged vent that split the ponderous wall clear to 
the top, showing a narrow streak of blue sky. 

At the base this vent was dark, cool, and smelled of dry, 
musty dust. It zigzagged so that he could not see ahead more 
than a few yards at a time. He noticed traeks of wildcats and 
rabbits in the dusty floor. At every turn he expected to come 
upon a huge cavern full of little square stone houses, each with a 
small aperture like a staring dark eye. The passage lightened 
and widened, and opened at the foot of a narrow, steep, ascend- 
ing chute. 

Venters had a moment’s notice of the rock, which was of the 
same smoothness and hardness as the slope below, before his 
gaze went irresistibly upward to the precipitous walls of this 
wide ladder of granite. These were ruined walls of yellow sand- 
stone, and so split and splintered, so overhanging with great 
sections of balancing rim, so impending with tremendous crum- 
bling crags, that Venters caught his breath sharply, and, appalled, 
he instinctively recoiled as if a step upward might jar the ponder- 
ous cliffs from their foundation. Indeed, it seemed that these 


SURPRISE VALLEY 99 

ruined cliffs were but awaiting a breath of wind to collapse and 
come tumbling down. Venters hesitated. It would be a fool- 
hardy man who risked his life under the leaning, waiting ava- 
lanches of rock in that gigantic split. Yet how many years had 
they leaned there without falling! At the bottom of the incline 
was an immense heap of weathered sandstone all crumbling to 
dust, but there were no huge rocks as large as houses, such as 
rested so lightly and frightfully above, waiting patiently and 
inevitably to crash down. Slowly split from the parent rock 
by the weathering process, and carved and sculptured by ages 
of wind and rain, they waited their moment. Venters felt how 
foolish it was for him to fear these broken walls; to fear that, 
after they had endured for thousands of years, the moment of 
his passing should be the one for them to slip. Yet he feared it. 

“What a place to hide!” muttered Venters. “I’ll climb — 
I’ll see where this thing goes. If only I can find water!” 

With teeth tight shut he essayed the incline. And as he 
climbed he bent his eyes downward. This, however, after a little 
grew impossible; he had to look to obey his eager, curious mind. 
He raised his glance and saw light between row on row of shafts 
and pinnacles and crags that stood out from the main wall. 
Some leaned against the cliff, others against each other; many 
stood sheer and alone; all were crumbling, cracked, rotten. It 
was a place of yellow, ragged ruin. The passage narrowed as 
he went up; it became a slant, hard for him to stick on; it was 
smooth as marble. Finally he surmounted it, surprised to find 
the walls still several hundred feet high, and a narrow gorge 
leading down on the other side. This was a divide between two 
inclines, about twenty yards wide. At one side stood an 
enormous rock. Venters gave it a second glance, because it rested 
on a pedestal. It attracted closer attention. It was like a 
colossal pear of stone standing on its stem. Around the bottom 
were thousands of little nicks just distinguishable to the eye. 


100 


HIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


They were marks of stone hatchets. The cliff-dwellers had 
chipped and chipped away at this boulder till it rested its tremen- 
dous bulk upon a mere pin-point of its surface. Venters pondered. 
Why had the little stone-men hacked away at that big boulder? 
It bore no semblance to a statue or an idol or a godhead or a 
sphinx. Instinctively he put his hands on it and pushed; then 
his shoulder and heaved. The stone seemed to groan, to stir, to 
grate, and then to move. It tipped a little downward and hung 
balancing for a long instant, slowly returned, rocked slightly, 
groaned, and settled back to its former position. 

Venters divined its significance. It had been meant for 
defense. The cliff-dwellers, driven by dreaded enemies to this 
last stand, had cunningly cut the rock until it balanced perfectly, 
ready to be dislodged by strong hands. Just below it leaned a 
tottering crag that would have toppled, starting an avalanche 
on an acclivity where no sliding mass could stop. Crags and 
pinnacles, splintered cliffs, and leaning shafts and monuments, 
would have thundered down to block forever the outlet to De- 
ception Pass. 

“That was a narrow shave for me,” said Venters, soberly. 
“A balancing rock! The cliff-dwellers never had to roll it. They 
died, vanished, and here the rock stands, probably little 
changed. . . . But it might serve another lonely dweller of the 
cliffs. I’ll hide up here somewhere, if I can only find water.” 

He descended the gorge on the other side. The slope was 
gradual, the space narrow, the course straight for many rods. 
A gloom hung between the up-sweeping walls. In a turn the 
passage narrowed to scarce a dozen feet, and here was darkness 
of night. But light shone ahead; another abrupt turn brought 
day again, and then wide open space. 

Above Venters loomed a wonderful arch of stone bridging 
the canon rims, and through the enormous round portal gleamed 
and glistened a beautiful valley shining under sunset gold re- 


SURPRISE VALLEY loi 

fleeted by surrounding cliffs. He gave a start of surprise. The 
valley was a cove a mile long, half that wide, and its inclosing 
walls were smooth and stained, and curved inward, forming great 
caves. He decided that its floor was far higher than the 
level of Deception Pass and the intersecting canons. No purple 
sage colored this valley floor. Instead there were the white of 
aspens, streaks of branch and slender trunk glistening from the 
green of leaves, and the darker green of oaks, and through the 
middle of this forest, from wall to wall, ran a winding line of 
brilliant green which marked the course of cottonwoods and 
willows. 

“There's water here— and this is the place for me," said 
Venters. “Only birds can peep over those walls. IVe gone 
Oldring one better." 

Venters waited no longer, and turned swiftly to retrace his 
steps. He named the canon Surprise Valley and the huge boulder 
that guarded the outlet Balancing Rock. Going down he did 
not find himself attended by such fears as had beset him in the 
climb 5 still, he was not easy in mind and could not occupy him- 
self with plans of moving the girl and his outfit until he had 
descended to the notch. There he rested a moment and looked 
about him. The pass was darkening with the approach of night. 
At the corner of the wall, where the stone steps turned, he saw 
a spur of rock that would serve to hold the noose of a lasso. He 
needed no more aid to scale that place. As he intended to make 
the move under cover of darkness, he wanted most to be able 
to tell where to climb up. So, taking several small stones with 
him, he stepped and slid down to the edge of the slope where he 
had left his rifle and boots. Here he placed the stones some 
yards apart. He left the rabbit lying upon the bench where the 
steps began. Then he addressed a keen-sighted, remembering 
gaze to the rim-wall above. It was serrated, and between two 
spears of rock, directly in line with his position, showed a zig- 


102 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

zag crack that at night would let through the gleam of sky. This 
settled, he put on his belt and boots and prepared to descend. 
Some consideration was necessary to decide whether or not to 
leave his rifle there. On the return, carrying the girl and a pack, 
it would be added encumbrance; and after debating the matter 
he left the rifle leaning against the bench. As he went straight 
down the slope he halted every few rods to look up at his mark 
on the rim. It changed, but he fixed each change in his memory. 
When he reached the first cedar-tree, he tied his scarf upon a 
dead branch, and then hurried toward camp, having no more 
concern about finding his trail upon the return trip. 

Darkness soon emboldened and lent him greater speed. It 
occurred to him, as he glided into the grassy glade near camp and 
heard the whinny of a horse, that he had forgotten Wrangle. 
The big sorrel could not be gotten into Surprise Valley. He 
would have to be left here. 

Venters determined at once to lead the other horses out 
through the thicket and turn them loose. The farther they 
wandered from this canon the better it would suit him. He 
easily descried Wrangle through the gloom, but the others were 
not in sight. Venters whistled low for the dogs, and when they 
came trotting to him he sent them out to search for the horses, 
and followed. It soon developed that they were not in the 
glade nor the thicket. Venters grew cold and rigid at the thought 
of rustlers having entered his retreat. But the thought passed, 
for the demeanor of Ring and Whitie reassured him. The horses 
had wandered away. 

Under the clump of silver spruces hung a denser mantle of 
darkness, yet not so thick that Venters’s night-practised eyes 
could not catch the white oval of a still face. He bent over it 
with a slight suspension of breath that was both caution lest he 
frighten her and chill uncertainty of feeling lest he find her dead. 
But she slept, and he arose to renewed activity. 


SURPRISE VALLEY 103 

He packed his saddle-bags. The dogs were hungry, they 
whined about him and nosed his busy hands; but he took no time 
to feed them nor to satisfy his own hunger. He slung the saddle- 
bags over his shoulders and made them secure with his lasso. 
Then he wrapped the blankets closer about the girl and lifted her 
in his arms. Wrangle whinnied and thumped the ground as 
Venters passed him with the dogs. The sorrel knew he was being 
left behind, and was not sure whether he liked it or not. Venters 
went on and entered the thicket. Here he had to feel his way 
in pitch blackness and to wedge his progress between the close 
saplings. Time meant little to him now that he had started, 
and he edged along with slow side movement till he got clear 
of the thicket. Ring and Whitie stood waiting for him. Taking 
to the open aisles and patches of the sage, he walked guardedly, 
careful not to stumble or step in dust or strike against spreading 
sage-branches. 

If he were burdened he did not feel it. From time to time, 
when he passed out of the black lines of shade into the wan star- 
light, he glanced at the white face of the girl lying in his arms. 
She had not awakened from her sleep or stupor. He did not rest 
until he cleared the black gate of the canon. Then he leaned 
against a stone breast-high to him and gently released the girl 
from his hold. His brow and hair and the palms of his hands 
were wet, and there was a kind of nervous contraction of his 
muscles. They seemed to ripple and string tense. He had a 
desire to hurry and no sense of fatigue. A wind blew the scent 
of sage in his face. The first early blackness of night passed 
with the brightening of the stars. Somewhere back on his trail 
a coyote yelped, splitting the dead silence. Venters’s faculties 
seemed singularly acute. 

He lifted the girl again and pressed on. The valley afforded 
better traveling than the canon. It was lighter, freer of sage, 
and there were no rocks. Soon, out of the pale gloom shone a 


104 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

still paler thing, and that was the low swell of slope. Venters 
mounted it, and his dogs walked beside him. Once upon the 
stone he slowed to snail pace, straining his sight to avoid the 
pockets and holes. Foot by foot he went up. The weird cedars, 
like great demons and witches chained to the rock and writhing 
in silent anguish, loomed up with wide and twisting naked arms. 
Venters crossed this belt of cedars, skirted the upper border, 
and recognized the tree he had marked, even before he saw his 
waving scarf. 

Here he knelt and deposited the girl gently, feet first, and 
slowly laid her out full length. What he feared was to reopen 
one of her wounds. If he gave her a violent jar, or slipped and 
fell! But the supreme confidence so strangely felt that night 
admitted of no such blunders. 

The slope before him seemed to swell into obscurity, to lose 
its definite outline in a misty, opaque cloud that shaded into 
the over-shadowing wall. He scanned the rim where the ser- 
rated points speared the sky, and he found the zigzag crack. 
It was dim, only a shade lighter than the dark ramparts; but he 
distinguished it, and that served. 

Lifting the girl, he stepped upward, closely attending to the 
nature of the path under his feet. After a few steps he stopped 
to mark his line with the crack in the rim. The dogs clung 
closer to him. While chasing the rabbit this slope had appeared 
interminable to him; now, burdened as he was, he did not think 
of length or height or toil. He remembered only to avoid a mis- 
step and to keep his direction. He climbed on, with frequent 
stops to watch the rim, and before he dreamed of gaining the 
bench he bumped his knees into it, and saw, in the dim gray 
light, his rifie and the rabbit. He had come straight up without 
mishap or swerving off his course, and his shut teeth unlocked. 

As he laid the girl down in the shallow hollow of the little 
ridge, with her white face upturned, she opened her eyes. Wide, 


SURPRISE VALLEY 105 

staring, black, at once like both the night and the stars, they 
made her face seem still whiter. 

“Is — ^it — ^you.^” she asked, faintly. 

“Yes,’’ replied Venters. 

“ Oh ! Where — are we ? ” 

“I’m taking you to a safe place where no one will ever find 
you. I must climb a little here and call the dogs. Don’t be 
afraid. I’ll soon come for you.” 

She said no more. Her eyes watched him steadily for a 
moment and then closed. Venters pulled off his boots and then 
felt for the little steps in the rock. The shade of the cliff above 
obscured the point he wanted to gain, but he could see dimly a 
few feet before him. What he had attempted with care he now 
went at with surpassing lightness. Buoyant, rapid, sure, he 
attained the comer of wall and slipped around it. Here he could 
not see a hand before his face, so he groped along, found a little 
flat space, and there removed the saddle-bags. The lasso he 
took back with him to the corner and looped the noose over the 
spur of rock. 

“Ring — Whitie — come,” he called, softly. 

Low whines came up from below. 

“Here! Come, Whitie — Ring,” he repeated, this time 
sharply. 

Then followed scraping of claws and pattering of feet; and 
out of the gray gloom below him swiftly climbed the dogs to 
reach his side and pass beyond. 

Venters descended, holding to the lasso. He tested its 
strength by throwing all his weight upon it. Then he gathered 
the girl up, and holding her securely in his left arm, he began to 
climb, at every few steps jerking his right hand upward along 
the lasso. It sagged at each forward movement he made, but 
he balanced himself lightly during the interval when he lacked 
the support of a taut rope. He climbed as if he had wings, the 


106 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

strength of a giant, and knew not the sense of fear. The sharp 
corner of cliff seemed to cut out of the darkness. He reached 
it and the protruding shelf, and then, entering the black shade of 
the notch, he moved blindly but surely to the place where he 
had left the saddle-bags. He heard the dogs, though he could 
not see them. Once more he carefully placed the girl at his 
feet. Then, on hands and knees, he went over the little flat 
space feeling for stones. He removed a number, and, scraping 
the deep dust into a heap, he unfolded the outer blanket from 
around the girl and laid her upon this bed. Then he went down 
the slope again for his boots, rifle, and the rabbit, and, bringing 
also his lasso with him, he made short work of that trip. 

“Are — ^you — there?” The girl’s voice came low from the 
blackness. 

“Yes,” he replied, and was conscious that his laboring breast 
made speech difficult. 

“Are we — in a cave?” 

“Yes.” 

“Oh, listen! . . . The waterfall! ... I hear it! You’ve brought 
me back!” 

Venters heard a murmuring moan that one moment swelled 
to a pitch almost softly shrill and the next lulled to a low, almost 
inaudible sigh. 

“That’s — wind blowing — in the — cliffs,” he panted. “You’re 
far — ^from Oldring’s — canon.” 

The effort it cost him to speak made him conscious of extreme 
lassitude following upon great exertion. It seemed that when 
he lay down and drew his blanket over him the action was the 
last before utter prostration. He stretched inert, wet, hot, his 
body one great strife of throbbing, stinging nerves and bursting 
veins. And there he lay for a long while before he felt that he 
had begun to rest. 

Rest came to him that night, but no sleep. Sleep he did not 


SURPRISE VALLEY 107 

want. The hours of strained effort were now as if they had 
never been, and he wanted to think. Earlier in the day he had 
dismissed an inexplicable feeling of change; but now, when there 
was no lonpr demand on his cunning and strength and he had 
time to think, he could not catch the illusive thing that had 
sadly perplexed as well as elevated his spirit. 

Above him, through a V-shaped cleft in the dark rim of the 
cliff, shone the lustrous stars that had been his lonely accusers 
for a long, long year. To-night they were different. He studied 
them. Larger, whiter, more radiant they seemed; but that was 
not the differenee he meant. Gradually it came to him that the 
distinction was not one he saw, but one he felt. In this he 
divined as much of the baffling change as he thought would be 
revealed to him then. And as he lay there, with the singing 
of the cliff-winds in his ears, the white stars above the dark, 
bold vent, the difference which he felt was that he was no longer 
alone. 


CHAPTER IX 


SILVER SPRUCE AND ASPENS 

T he rest of that night seemed to Venters only a few moments 
of starlight, a dark overcasting of sky, an hour or so of 
gray gloom, and then the lighting of dawn. 

When he had bestirred himself, feeding the hungry dogs and 
breaking his long fast, and had repacked his saddle-bags, it was 
clear daylight, though the sun had not tipped the yellow wall in 
the east. He concluded to make the climb and descent into 
Surprise Valley in one trip. To that end he tied his blanket 
upon Ring and gave Whitie the extra lasso and the rabbit to 
carry. Then, with the rifle and saddle-bags slung upon his 
back, he took up the girl. She did not awaken from heavy 
slumber. 

That climb up under the rugged, menacing brows of the 
broken cliffs, in the face of a grim, leaning boulder that seemed 
to be weary of its age-long wavering, was a tax on strength and 
nerve that Venters felt equally with something sweet and strangely 
exulting in its accomplishment. He did not pause until he 
gained the narrow divide, and there he rested. Balancing Rock 
loomed huge, cold in the gray light of dawn, a thing without 
life, yet it spoke silently to Venters: “I am waiting to plunge 
down, to shatter and crash, roar and boom, to bury your trail, 
and close forever the outlet to Deception Pass!” 

On the descent of the other side Venters had easy going, but 
was somewhat concerned because Whitie appeared to have sue- 


SILVER SPRUCE AND ASPENS 109 

cumbed to temptation, and while carrying the rabbit was also 
chewing on it. And Ring evidently regarded this as an injury 
to himself, especially as he had carried the heavier load. Presently 
he snapped at one end of the rabbit and refused to let go. But 
his action prevented Whitie from further misdoing, and then the 
two dogs pattered down, carrying the rabbit between them. 

Venters turned out of the gorge, and suddenly paused stock- 
still, astounded at the scene before him. The curve of the great 
stone bridge had caught the sunrise, and through the magnificent 
arch burst a glorious stream of gold that shone with a long slant 
down into the center of Surprise Valley. Only through the arch 
did any sunlight pass, so that all the rest of the valley lay still 
asleep, dark green, mysterious, shadowy, merging its level into 
walls as misty and soft as morning clouds. 

Venters then descended, passing through the arch, looking 
up at its tremendous height and sweep. It spanned the opening 
to Surprise Valley, stretching in almost perfect curw* from rim 
to rim. Even in his hurry and concern Venters could not but 
feel its majesty, and the thought came to him that the cliff- 
dwellers must have regarded it as an object of worship. 

Down, down, down Venters strode, more and more feeling 
the weight of his burden as he descended, and still the valley lay 
below him. As all other canons and coves and valleys had de- 
ceived him, so had this deep-nestling oval. At length he passed 
beyond the slope of weathered stone that spread fan-shape from 
the arch; and encountered a grassy terrace running to the right 
and about on a level with the tips of the oaks and cottonwoods 
below. Scattered here and there upon this shelf were clumps 
of aspens, and he walked through them into a glade that sur- 
passed, in beauty and adaptability for a wild home, any place 
he had ever seen. Silver spruces bordered the base of a pre- 
cipitous wall that rose loftily. Caves indented its surface, and 
there were no detached ledges or weathered sections that might 


110 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

dislodge a stone. The level ground, beyond the spruces, dropped 
down into a little ravine. This was one dense line of slender 
aspens from which came the low splashing of water. And the 
terrace, lying open to the west, afforded unobstructed view of 
the valley of green tree-tops. 

For his camp Venters chose a shady, grassy plot between the 
silver spruces and the cliff. Here, in the stone wall, had been 
wonderfully carved by wind or washed by water several deep 
caves above the level of the terrace. They were clean, dry, 
roomy. He cut spruce boughs and made a bed in the largest 
cave and laid the girl there. The first intimation that he had 
of her being aroused from sleep or lethargy was a low call for 
water. 

He hurried down into the ravine with his canteen. It was a 
shallow, grass-green place with aspens growing up everywhere. 
To his delight he found a tiny brook of swift-running water. Its 
faint tinge of amber reminded him of the spring at Cottonwoods, 
and the thought gave him a little shock. The water was so cold 
it made his fingers tingle as he dipped the canteen. Having 
returned to the cave, he was glad to see the girl drink thirstily. 
This time he noted that she could raise her head slightly without 
his help. 

“You were thirsty,” he said. “It’s good water. I’ve found 
a fine place. Tell me — how do you feel.^” 

“There’s pain — ^here,” she replied, and moved her hand to 
her left side. 

“Why, that’s strange. Your wounds are on your right side. 
I believe you’re hungry. Is the pain a kind of dull ache — a 
gnawing?” 

“It’s like— that.” 

“Then it’s hunger.” Venters laughed, and suddenly caught 
himself with a quick breath and felt again the little shock. When 
had he laughed? “It’s hunger,” he went on. “I’ve had that 



HE DID NOT PAUSE UNTIL HE GAINED THE NARROW DIVIDE 



’* * 


th ^ 







'» v 






^*iir.' 


( 



* 
' * 









j . 





■ . 


^ k 


t 




SILVER SPRUCE AND ASPENS 


111 


gnaw many a time. IVe got it now. But you mustn’t eat. 
You can have all the water you want, but no food just yet.” 
‘^Won’t I— starve?” ^ 

“No, people don’t starve easily. I’ve dfecovered that. You 
must lie perfectly still and rest and sleep-r^or days.”^ 

“My hands — are dirty — my face feels-^so hot anU sticky — 
my boots hurt.” It was her longest speech as yet, and it trailed 
off in a whisper. 

“ Well, I’m a fine nurse ! ” * 

It annoyed him that he had never thought of these things. 
But then, awaiting her death and thinkpg of her comfort were 
vastly different matters. He unwraj^ed the blanket which 
covered her. What a slender girl she j^as! No wonder he had 
been able to carry her miles and pack h^ up that slippery ladder of 
stone. Her boots were of soft, fine lather, reaching clear to her 
knees. He recognized the make as oip of a bootmaker in Sterling. 
Her spurs, that he had stupidly ne^ected to remove, consisted 
of silver frames and gold chains, an^ the rowels, large as silver 
dollars, were fancifully engraved. The:boots slipped off rather hard. 
She wore heavy woolen rider’s stoc^iings, half length, and these 
were pulled up over the ends of her^ihort trousers. Venters took 
off the stockings to note her little f4et were red and swollen. He 
bathed them. Then he removed his scarf and bathed her face 
and hands. ^ 

“I must see your wounds now?’ he s£i,id, gently. 

She made no reply, but^waLtchecIhim steadily, a^he opened her 
blouse and untie^ vthe b^ fiis /troh| fingers trembled a 

little as he removed it. If reopened! A chill 

struck hiin as he ^ stream 

of, blood from it down her wEifej^reast. Very carefully 

her to see that the Wound in h'er back had closed per- 
fectly. Then he washed the blood from her breast, bathed the 
wound, and left it unbandaged, open to the air. 


112 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


Her eyes thanked him. 

“Listen,” he said, earnestly, “I’ve had some woimds, and 
I’ve seen many. I know a little about them. The hole in your 
back has closed. If you lie still three days the one in your breast 
will close, and you’ll be safe. The danger from hemorrhage will 
be over.” 

He had spoken with earnest sincerity, almost eagerness. 

“Why — do you — want me — to get well.^^” she asked, 
wonderingly. 

The simple question seemed unanswerable except on grounds 
of humanity. But the circumstances under which he had shot 
this strange girl, the shock and realization, the waiting for death, 
the hope, had resulted in a condition of mind wherein Venters 
wanted her to live more than he had ever wanted anything. Yet 
he could not tell why. He believed the killing of the rustler and 
the subsequent excitement had disturbed him. For how else 
could he explain the throbbing of his brain, the heat of his blood, 
the undefined sense of full hours, charged, vibrant with pulsating 
mystery where once they had dragged in loneliness 

“I shot you,” he said, slowly, “and I want you to get well so 
I shall not have killed a woman. But — ^for your own sake, 
too—” 

A terrible bitterness darkened her eyes, and her lips quivered. 

“Hush,” said Venters. “You’ve talked too much already.” 

In her unutterable bitterness he saw £j^Jarkness of mood that 
could not have been caused by her pr^nt weak and feverish 
state. She hated the life she had led^^^at sh^'probably had been 
compelled to lead. She had suff^i^f soi^^ unforgivable wrong 
at the hands of Oldring. Witl^^l^t ^hviction Venters felt a 
flame throughout his body, and iy'marked the rekindling of fierce 
anger and ruthlessness. In the p#t long year he had nursed 
resentment. He had hated the, wilderness — the loneliness of the 
uplands. He had waited for, soifiething to come to pass. It had 


SILVER SPRUCE AND ASPENS 


113 


come. Like an Indian stealing horses he had skulked into the 
recesses of the cafions. He had found Oldring’s retreat; he had 
killed a rustler; he had shot an unfortunate girl, then had saved 
her from this unwitting act, and he meant to save her from the 
consequent wasting of blood, from fever and weakness. Starva- 
tion he had to fight for her and for himself. Where he had been 
sick at the letting of blood, now he remembered it in grim, cold 
calm. And as he lost that softness of nature so he lost his fear 
of men. He would watch for Oldring, biding his time, and he 
would kill this great black-bearded rustler who had held a girl 
in bondage, who had used her to his infamous ends. 

Venters surmised this much of the change in him — idleness 
had passed; keen, fierce vigor flooded his mind and body; all 
that had happened to him at Cottonwoods seemed remote and 
hard to recall; the difficulties and perils of the present absorbed 
him, held him in a kind of spell. 

First, then, he fitted up the little cave adjoining the girl’s 
room for his own comfort and use. His next work was to build 
a fireplace of stones and to gather a store of wood. That done, 
he spilled the contents of his saddle-bags upon the grass and took 
stock. His outfit consisted of a small-handled ax, a hunting- 
knife, a large number of cartridges for rifle or revolver, a tin 
plate, a cup, and a fork and spoon, a quantity of dried beef and 
dried fruits, and small canvas bags containing tea, sugar, salt 
and pepper. For him alone this supply would have been bounti- 
ful to beg^u a sojouri^ in the wilderness, but he was no longer 
alone. St^iyation in thei uplands was not an unheard-of thing; 
he did not, Kb^ever, worry '^t all on that score, and feared only 
his possible inafe^ity to suppl^4he needs of a wornan in a weak- 
ened and extremel^.^elicate con^rljpn. 

If there was no gartte in the valle^;;^a contingency he doubted 
— it would not be a great task for him’^tq go by night to Oldring’s 
herd and pack out a calf. The exigj^.c^,of the moment was to 


114 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


ascertain if there were game in Surprise Valley. Whitie still 
guarded the dilapidated rabbit, and Ring slept near by under a 
spruce. Venters called Ring and went to the edge of the terrace, 
and there halted to survey the valley. 

He was prepared to find it larger than his unstudied glances 
had made it appear; for more than a casual idea of dimensions 
and a hasty conception of oval shape and singular J^eauty he 
had not had time. Again the felicity of the name he had given 
the valley struck him forcibly. Around the red perpendicular 
walls, except under the great arc of stone, ran a terrace fringed 
at the cliff -base by silver spruces; below that first terrace sloped 
another wider one densely overgrown with aspens; and the center 
of the valley was a level circle of oaks and alders, with the glitter- 
ing green line of willows and cottonwoods dividing it in half. 
Venters saw a number and variety of birds flitting among the 
trees. To his left, facing the stone bridge, an enormous cavern 
opened in the wall; and low down, just above the tree-tops, he 
made out a long shelf of cliff-dwellings, with little black, staring 
windows or doors. Like eyes they were, and seemed to watch 
him. The few cliff -dwellings he had seen — all ruins — ^had left 
him with haunting memory of age and solitude and of something 
past. He had come, in a way, to be a cliff-dweller himself, and 
those silent eyes would look down upon him, as if in surprise 
that after thousands of years a man had invaded the valley. 
Venters felt sure that he was the only white man who had ever 
walked under the shadow of the wonderful stone bridge, down 
into that wonderful valley with its circle of caves and its ter- 
raced rings of silver spruce and aspens. 

The dog growled below and rushed into the forest. Venters 
ran down the declivity to enter a zone of light shade streaked 
with sunshine. The oak-trees were slender, none more than half 
a foot thick, and they grew close together, intermingling their 
branches. Ring came running back with a rabbit in his mouth. 


SILVER SPRUCE AND ASPENS 115 

Venters took the rabbit and, holding the dog near him, stole 
softly on. There were fluttering of wings among the branches 
and quick bird-notes, and rustling of dead leaves and rapid 
patterings. Venters crossed well-worn trails marked with fresh 
tracks; and when he had stolen on a little farther he saw many 
birds and running quail, and more rabbits than he could count. 
He had not penetrated the forest of oaks for a hundred yards, 
had not approached anywhere near the line of willows and cotton- 
woods which he knew grew along a stream. But he had seen 
enough to know that Surprise Valley was the home of many 
wild creatures. 

Venters returned to camp. He skinned the rabbits, and 
gave the dogs the one they had quarreled over, and the skin of 
this he dressed and hung up to dry, feeling that he would like to 
keep it. It was a particularly rich, furry pelt with a beautiful 
white tail. Venters remembered that but for the bobbing of 
that white tail catching his eye he would not have espied the 
rabbit, and he would never have discovered Surprise Valley. 
Little incidents of chance like this had turned him here and 
there in Deception Pass; and now they had assumed to him the 
significance and direction of destiny. 

His good fortune in the matter of game at hand brought to 
his mind the necessity of keeping it in the valley. Therefore he 
took the ax and cut bundles of aspens and willows, and packed 
them up under the bridge to the narrow outlet of the gorge. 
Here he began fashioning a fence, by driving aspens into the 
ground and lacing them fast with willows. Trip after trip he 
made down for more building material, and the afternoon had 
passed when he finished the work to his satisfaction. Wildcats 
might scale the fence, but no coyote could come in to search for 
prey, and no rabbits or other small game could escape from the 
valley. 

Upon returning to camp he set about getting his supper at 


116 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


ease, around a fine fire, without hurry or fear of discovery. After 
hard work that had definite purpose, this freedom and comfort 
gave him peculiar satisfaction. He caught himself often, as he 
kept busy round the camp-fire, stopping to glance at the quiet 
form in the cave, and at the dogs stretched cozily near him, and 
then out across the beautiful valley. The present was not yet 
real to him. 

While he ate, the sun set beyond a dip in the rim of the curved 
wall. As the morning sun burst wondrously through a grand 
arch into this valley, in a golden, slanting shaft, so the evening 
sun, at the moment of setting, shone through a gap of cliffs, 
sending down a broad red burst to brighten the oval with a blaze 
of fire. To Venters both sunrise and sunset were unreal. 

A cool wind blew across the oval, waving the tips of oaks, 
and, while the light lasted, fluttering the aspen-le^es into millions 
of facets of red, and sweeping the graceful sprii^s. Then with 
the wind soon came a shade and a darkenmg,.^and suddenly the 
valley was gray. Night came there qu^kljr,^fter the sinking of 
the sun. Venters went softly to loo^" ah^^the girl. She slept, 
and her breathing was quiet and shm'^e lifted Ring into the 
cave, with stern whisper fbr him to&£y there on guard. Then 
he drew the blanket caiifully o^fe her and returned to the 
camp-fire. \ 

Though exceedingly tir^, ^^e was yet loath to yield to las- 
situde, but this night it was^O^*from listening, watchful vigilance; 
it was from a desire to rea^e his position. The details of his 
wild environment seemed tllfe only substance of a strange dream. 
He saw the darkening ri|Ss, the gray oval turning black, the 
undulating surface of forest, like a rippling lake, and the spear- 
pointed spruces. He h^rd the flutter of aspen-leaves and the 
soft, continuous splash: of falling water. The melancholy note 
of a canon bird broke ctear and lonely from the high cliffs. Venters 
had no name for this'^night singer, and he had never seen one; 


117 


SILVER SPRUCE AND ASPENS 

but the few notes, always pealing out just at darkness, were as 
familiar to him as the canon silence. Then they ceased, and the 
rustle of leaves and the murmur of water hushed in a growing 
sound that Venters fancied was not of earth. Neither had he 
a name for this, only it was inexpressibly wild and sweet. The 
thought came that it might be a moan of the girl in her last out- 
cry of life, and he felt a tremor shake him. But no! This sound 
was not human, though it was like despair. He began to doubt 
his sensitive perceptions, to believe that he half dreamed what 
he thought he heard. Then the sound swelled with the strengthen- 
ing of the breeze, and he realized it was the singing of the wind in 
the cliffs. 

By and by a drowsiness overcame him, and Venters began 
to nod, half asleep, with his back against a spruce. Rousing 
himself and calling Whitie, he went to the cave. The girl lay 
barely visible in the dimness. Ring crouched beside her, and the 
patting of his tail on the stone assured Venters that the dog 
was awake and faithful to his duty. Venters sought his own 
bed of fragrant boughs; and as he lay back, somehow grateful 
for the comfort and safety, the night seemed to steal away 
from him, and he sank softly into intangible space and rest 
and slumber. 

Venters awakened to the sound of melody that he imagined 
was only the haunting echo of dream music. He opened his 
eyes to another surprise of this valley of beautiful surprises. Out 
of his cave he saw the exquisitely fine foliage of the silver spruces 
crossing a round space of blue morning sky; and in this lacy leaf- 
age fluttered a number of gray birds with black and white stripes 
and long tails. They were mocking-birds, and they were sing- 
ing as if' they wanted to burst their throats. Venters listened. 
One long, silver-tipped branch drooped almost to his cave, and 
upon it, within a few yards of him, sat one of the graceful birds. 
Venters saw the swelling and quivering of its throat in song. 


118 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


He arose, and when he slid down out of his cave the birds fluttered 
and flew farther away. 

Venters stepped before the opening of the other cave and 
looked in. The girl was awake, with wide eyes and listening 
look, and she had a hand on Ring’s neck. 

“Mocking-birds!” she said. 

“Yes,” replied Venters, “and I believe they like our company.” 

“Where are we.^” 

“Never mind now. After a little I’ll tell you.” 

“The birds woke me. When I heard them — and saw the 
shiny trees — and the blue sky — and then a blaze of gold dropping 
down — I wondered — ” 

She did not complete her fancy, but Venters imagined he 
understood her meaning. She appeared to be wandering in 
mind. Venters felt her face and hands and found them burning 
with fever. He went for water, and was glad to find it almost as 
cold as if flowing from ice. That water was the only medicine 
he had, and he put faith in it. She did not want to drink, but he 
made her swallow, and then he bathed her face and head and 
cooled her wrists. 

The day began with a heightening of the fever. Venters 
spent the time reducing her temperature, cooling her hot cheeks 
and temples. He kept close watch over her, and at the least 
indication of restlessness, that he knew led to tossing and rolling 
of the body, he held her tightly, so no violent move could reopen 
her wounds. Hour after hour she babbled and laughed and cried 
and moaned in delirium; but whatever her secret was she did 
not reveal it. Attended by something somber for Venters, the 
day passed. At night in the cool winds the fever abated and she 
slept. 

The second day was a repetition of the first. On the third 
he seemed to see her wither and waste away before his eyes. 
That day he scarcely went from her side for a moment, except 


SILVER SPRUCE AND ASPENS 


119 


to run for fresh, cool water; and he did not eat. The fever broke 
on the fourth day and left her spent and shrunken, a slip of a 
girl with life only in her eyes. They hung upon Venters with a 
mute observance, and he found hope in that. 

To rekindle the spark that had nearly flickered out, to nourish 
the little life and vitality that remained in her, was Venters’s 
problem. But he had little resource other than the meat of the 
rabbits and quail; and from these he made broths and soups as 
best he could, and fed her with a spoon. It came to him that 
the human body, like the human soul, was a strange thing and 
capable of recovering from terrible shocks. For almost im- 
mediately she showed faint signs of gathering strength. There 
was one more waiting day, in which he doubted, and spent long 
hours by her side as she slept, and watched the gentle swell of 
her breast rise and fall in breathing and the wind stir the tangled 
chestnut curls. On the next day he knew that she would live. 

Upon realizing^ it he abruptly left the cave and sought his 
accustomed seat against the trunk of a big spruce, where once 
more he let his glance stray along the sloping terraces. She 
would live, and the somber gloom lifted out of the valley, and he 
felt relief that was pain. Then he roused to the call of action, 
to the many things he needed to do in the way of making camp 
fixtures and utensils, to the necessity of hunting food, and the 
desire to explore the valley. 

But he decided to wait a few more days before going far from 
camp, because he fancied that the girl rested easier when she 
could see him near at hand. And on the first day her languor 
appeared to leave her in a renewed grip of life. She awoke stronger 
from each short slumber; she ate greedily, and she moved about 
in her bed of boughs; and always, it seemed to Venters, her eyes 
> followed him. He knew now that her recovery would be rapid. 
She talked about the dogs, about the caves, the valley, about 

how hungry she was, till Venters silenced her, asking her to put 
9 


120 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

off further talk till another time. She obeyed, but she sat up 
in her bed, and her eyes roved to and fro, and always back to 
him. 

Upon the second morning she sat up when he awakened her, 
and would not permit him to bathe her face and feed her, which 
actions she performed for herself. She spoke little, however, 
and Venters was quick to catch in her the first intimations of 
thoughtfulness and curiosity and appreciation of her situation. 
He left camp and took Whitie out to hunt for rabbits. Upon 
his return he was amazed and somewhat anxiously concerned 
to see his invalid sitting with her back to a corner of the cave 
and her bare feet swinging out. Hurriedly he approached, in- 
tending to advise her to lie down again, to tell her that perhaps 
she might overtax her strength. The sun shone upon her, glint- 
ing on the little head with its tangle of bright hair and the small, 
oval face with its pallor, and dark-blue eyes underlined by dark- 
blue circles. She looked at him, and he looked at her. In that 
exchange of glances he imagined each saw the other in some 
different guise. It seemed impossible to Venters that this frail 
girl could be Oldring’s Masked Rider. It flashed over him that 
he had made a mistake which presently she would explain. 

“Help me down,” she said. 

“But— are you well enough.^^” he protested. “Wait— a little 
longer.” 

“I’m weak — dizzy. But I want to get down.” 

He lifted her — what a light burden now! — and stood her up- 
right beside him, and supported her as she essayed to walk with 
halting steps. She was like a stripling of a boy; the bright, 
small head scarcely reached his shoulder. But now, as shq 
clung to his arm, the rider’s costume she wore did not contradigt, .j 
as it had done at first, his feeling of her femininity, ^he 
be the famous Masked Rider of the uplands, she mi^t res^^e 
a boy; but her outline, her little hands and feet,^ h^her 


121 


SILVER SPRUCE AND ASPENS 

big eyes and tremulous lips, and especially a something that 
Venters felt as a subtle essence rather than what he saw, pro- 
claimed her sex. 

She soon tired. He arranged a comfortable seat for her under 
the spruce that overspread the camp-fire. 

“Now tell me — everything,” she said. 

He recounted all that had happened from the time of his 
discovery of the rustlers in the canon up to the present moment. 

“You shot me — and now you’ve saved my life?” 

“Yes. After almost killing you I’ve pulled you through.” 

“Are you glad?” 

“I should say so!” 

Her eyes were unusually expressive, and they regarded him 
steadily; she was unconscious of that mirroring of her emotions, 
and they shone with gratefulness and interest and wonder and 
sadness. 

“Tell me — about yourself?” she asked. 

He made this a briefer story, telling of his coming to Utah, 
his various occupations till he became a rider, and then how the 
Mormons had practically driven him out of Cottonwoods, an 
outcast. 

Then, no longer able to withstand his own burning curiosity, 
he questioned her in turn. 

“Are you Oldring’s Masked Rider?” 

“Yes,” she replied, and dropped her eyes. 

“I knew it — I recognized your figure — and mask, for I sa^^ 
you once. Yet I can’t believe it! . . . But you never 
that rustler, as we riders knew him? A thief — a marauder — a 
kidnapper of women — a murderer o|,,sle€?phig rider®” 

“No! I never stole — qr-<halffied anyone — in aH'^my life. I 
only rode and rode— 

“ But .why — why? ” he bujst out; “ Why the name? I under- 
stand" Oldring itui^'yo^ ride. But the black mask— the mystery 


122 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


— the things laid to your hands — the threats in your infamous 
name — the night-riding credited to you — the evil deeds deliber- 
ately blamed on you and acknowledged by rustlers — even Oldring 
himself! Why? Tell me why?” 

‘T never knew that,” she answered low. Her drooping 
head straightened, and the large eyes, larger now and darker, met 
Venters’s with a clear, steadfast gaze in which he read truth. 
It verified his own conviction. 

“Never knew? That’s strange! * Are you a Mormon?” 
“No.” 

“Is Oldring a Mormon?” 

“No.” 

“Do you — care for him?” 

“Yes. I hate his men — ^his life — sometimes I almost hate 
him!” 

Venters paused in his rapid-fire questioning, as if to brace 
himself to ask for a truth that would be abhorrent for him to 
confirm, but which he seemed driven to hear. 

“What are — what were you to Oldring?” 

Like some delicate thing suddenly exposed to blasting heat, 
the girl wilted; her head dropped, and into her white, wasted 
cheeks crept the red of shame. 

Venters would have given anything to recall that question. 
It seemed so different — ^his thought when spoken. Yet her shame 
established in his mind something akin to the respect he had 
strangely been hungering to feel for her. 

“D — n that question! — forget it!” he cried, in a passion of 
pain for her and anger at himself. “But once and for all — tell 
me — ^I know it, yet I want to hear you say so-^you couldn’t help 
yourself?” 

“Oh, no.” 

“Well, that makes it all right with me,” he went on, honestly. 
“I — I want you to feel that . . . you see — we’ve been thrown 


SILVER SPRUCE AND ASPENS 123 

together — and — and I want to help you — not hurt you. I thought 
life had been cruel to me, but when I think of yours I feel mean 
and little for my complaining. Anyway, I was a lonely outcast. 
And now! ... I don’t see very clearly what it all means. Only 
we are here — ^together. We’ve got to stay here, for long, surely 
till you are well. But you’ll never go back to Oldring. And 
I’m sure helping you will help me, for I was sick in mind. There’s 
something now for me to do. And if I can win back your strength 
then get you away, out of this wild country — help you some- 
how to a happier life — J ist think how good that ’ll be for me!” 




hchap^; 



tl^se w^i0g days enters, with the exception 
J^lp^feern^n whm he had biiHt'. the^gate in the gorge, 
«i5^^^"gpiie o^t of sight of camp, and never out of hearing. 
jl|i§'^Sj^«^|Q. explo Valley was keen, and on the iporn- 

l^is long Ipk with the girl he took his rifle and, calling 
a movi||to start. The girl lay back in a rude chair of 
; had put together for her. She had been watching 

^ , . jj and when h^i^picked up the gun and called the dog Venters 

^A^^bught she gav^la nervous start. 
vV " “I’m only go^ to look over the valley,” he said. 

V' ‘‘Will you begone long.^” 

“No,” he Implied, and started off . incident set him 
thinking of his %rmer impression th^f after| her recovery from 
fever, she did not seem at ease unless he waf close at hand. It 
was fear of being alone, due, he' concludecj^ most likely to her 
weakened condition. He must not leave l^r much alone. 

As he strode down the sloping terrace, rabbits scampered 
before him, and the beautiful valley qj^ail, as purple in color 
as the sage on the uplands, ran fleetly ^bng the ground into the 
forest. It was pleasant under the trees|m the gold-flecked shade, 
with the whistle of quail and twitt^ing of birds eve^^ywhere. 
Soon he had passed the limit of his fc^iner excursions and entered 
new territory. Here the woods be^n to show open glades and 
brooks running down from the slc^’e, and presently he emerged 
from shade into the sunshine of ^meadow. The shaking of the 


LOVE 


125 


high grass told him of the running of animals, what species he 
could not tell; but from Ring’s manifest desire to have a chase 
they were evidently some kind wilder than rabbits. Venters 
approached the willow and cottonwood belt that he had ob- 
served from the height of slope. He penetrated it to find a 
considerable stream of water and great half-submerged mounds of 
brush and sticks, and all about him were old and new gnawed 
circles at the base of the cottonwoods. 

“Beaver!” he exclaimed. “By all that’s lucky! The mead- 
ow’s full of beaver! How did they ever get here.^” 

Beaver had not found a way into the valley by the trail of 
the cliff-dwellers, of that he was certain; and he began to have 
more than curiosity as to the outlet or inlet of the stream. When 
he passed some dead water, which he noted was held by a beaver- 
dam, there was a current in the stream, and it flowed west. Fol- 
lowing its course, he soon entered the oak forest again, and parsed 
through to find himself before massed and jumbled ruins of 
wall. There were tangled thickets of wild plum-trees and other 
thorny growths that made passage extremely laborsome. He 
found innumerable tracks of wildcats and foxes. Rustlings in 
the thick undergrowth told him of stealthy movements of these 
animals. At length his further advance appeared futile, for the 
reason that the stream disappeared in a split at the base of im- 
mense rocks over which he could not climb. To his relief he 
concluded that though beaver might work their way up the 
narrow chasm where the water rushed, it would be impossible 
for men to. enter the valley there. 

This western curve was the only part of the valley where the 
walls had been split asunder, and it was a wildly rough and 
inaccessible corner. Going back a little way, he leaped the 
stream and headed toward the southern wall. Once out of the 
oaks he found again the low terrace of aspens, and above that 
the wide, open terrace fringed by silver spruces. This side of 


126 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

the valley contained the wind or water worn caves. As he 
pressed on, keeping to the upper terrace, cave after cave opened 
out of the cliff; now a large one, now a small one. Then yawned, 
quite suddenly and wonderfully above him, the great cavern of 
the cliff-dwellers. 

It was still a goodly distance, and he tried to imagine, if it 
appeared so huge from where he stood, what it would be when 
he got there. He climbed the terrace and then faced a long, 
gradual ascent of weathered rock and dust, which made climbing 
too difficult for attention to anything else. At length he en- 
tered a zone of shade, and looked up. He stood just within the 
hollow of a cavern so immense that he had no conception of its 
real dimensions. The curved roof, stained by ages of leakage, 
with buff and black and rust-colored streaks, swept up and 
loomed higher and seemed to soar to the rim of the cliff. Here 
again was a magnificent arch, such as formed the grand gateway 
to the valley, only in this instance it formed the dome of a cave 
instead of the span of a bridge. 

Venters passed onward and upward. The stones he dis- 
lodged rolled down with strange, hollow crack and roar. He 
had climbed a hundred rods inward, and yet he had not reached 
the base of the shelf where the cliff -dwellings rested, a long half- 
circle of connected stone houses, with little dark holes that he 
had fancied were eyes. At length he gained the base of the 
shelf, ^ and here found steps cut in the rock. These facilitated 
climbing, and as he went up he thought how easily this vanished 
race of men might once have held that stronghold against an 
army. There was only one possible place to ascend, and this 
was narrow and steep. 

Venters had visited cliff-dwellings before, and they had been 
m rums, and of no great character or size; but this place was of 
proportions that stunned him, and it had not been desecrated 
by the hand of man, nor had it been crumbled by the hand of 


LOVE 


127 

time. It was a stupendous tomb. It had been a city. It was 
just as it had been left by its builders. The little houses were 
there, the smoke-blackened stains of fires, the pieces of pottery 
scattered about cold hearths, the stone-hatchets; and stone 
pestles and mealing-stones lay beside round holes polished by 
years of grinding maize — lay there as if they had been carelessly 
dropped yesterday. But the cliff-dwellers were gone! 

Dust! They were dust on the floor or at the foot of the 
shelf, and their habitations and utensils endured. Venters felt 
the sublimity of that marvelous vaulted arch, and it seemed 
to gleam with a glory of something that was gone. How many 
years had passed since the cliff-dwellers gazed out across the 
beautiful valley as he was gazing now.^ How long had it been 
since women ground grain in those polished holes What time 
had rolled by since men of an unknown race lived, loved, fought, 
and died there Had an enemy destroyed them.^ Had disease 
destroyed them, or only that greatest destroyer — time? Venters 
saw a long line of blood-red hands painted low down upon the 
yellow roof of stone. Here was strange portent, if not an answer 
to his queries. The place oppressed him. It was light, but 
full of a transparent gloom. It smelled of dust and musty 
stone, of age and disuse. It was sad. It was solemn. It had 
the look of a place where silence had become master and was now 
irrevocable and terrible, and could not be broken. Yet, at the 
moment, from high up in the carved crevices of the arch, floated 
down the low, strange wail of wind — a knell indeed for all that 
had gone. 

Venters, sighing, gathered up an armful of pottery, such 
pieces as he thought strong enough and suitable for his own use, 
and bent his steps toward camp. He mounted the terrace at 
an opposite point to which he had left. He saw the girl looking 
in the direction he had gone. His footsteps made no sound in 
the deep grass, and he approached close without her being aware 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


128 

of his presence. Whitie lay on the ground near where she sat, 
and he manifested the usual actions of welcome, but the girl 
did not notice them. She seemed to be oblivious to everything 
near at hand. She made a pathetic figure drooping there, with her 
sunny hair contrasting so markedly with her white, wasted cheeks 
and her hands listlessly clasped and her little bare feet propped 
in the framework of the rude seat. Venters could have sworn 
and laughed in one breath at the idea of the connection between 
this girl and Oldring’s Masked Rider. She was the victim of 
more than accident of fate — a victim to some deep plot the 
mystery of which burned him. As he stepped forward with a 
half-formed thought that she was absorbed in watching for his 
return, she turned her head and saw him. A swift start, a 
change rather than rush of blood under her white cheeks, a 
flashing of big eyes that fixed their glance upon him, transformed 
her face in that single instant of turning; and he knew she had 
been watching for him, that his return was the one thing in her 
mind. She did not smile; she did not flush; she did not look 
glad. All these would have meant little compared to her in- 
definite expression. Venters grasped the peculiar, vivid, vital 
something that leaped from her face. It w^s as if she had been 
in a dead, hopeless clamp of inaction and.ieeling, and had been 
suddenly shot through and through with quivering animation. 
Almost it was as if she had returned to l|fe. 

And Venters thought with lightnii^ - swiftness, ‘TVe saved 
her — IVe unlinked her from that old^dife^she was watching as 
if I were all she had left on earth^sl^J belongs to me!” The 
thought was startlingly new. Lpe a blow it was in an un- 
prepared moment. The cheeyy ^lutatiofi he had ready for her 
died unborn, and he tumble |lie pieced of pottery awkwardly 
on the grass, while some unf^iliar, deep-seated emotion, mixed 
with pity and glad assuranc^f his power to succor her, held him 
dumb. f 


LOVE 


129 


“What a load you had,” she said. “Why, they’re pots and 
crocks! Where did you get them.?^” 

Venters laid down his rifle, and, filling one of the pots from 
his canteen, he placed it on the smoldering camp-fire. 

“Hope it ’ll hold water,” he said, presently. “Why, there’s 
an enormous cliff-dwelling just across here. I got the pottery 
there. Don’t you thinlc we needed something? That tin cup 
of mine has served to make tea, broth, soup — everything.” 

“I noticed we hadn’t a great deal to cook in.” 

She laughed. It was the first time. He liked that laugh, 
and though he was tempted to look at her, he did not want to 
show his surprise or his pleasure. 

“Will you take me over there, and all around in the valley — 
pretty soon when I’m well?” she added. 

“Indeed I shall. It’s a wonderful place. Rabbits so thick 
you can’t step without kicking one out. And quail, beavear 
foxes, wildcats. We’re in a regular den. But — ^haven’t you 
ever seen a cliff-dwelling?” 

“No. I’ve heard about them, though. The— the men say 
the pass is full of old houses and ruins.” 

“Why, I should think you’d have run across one in all your 
riding around,” said Venters. He spoke slowly, choosing his 
words carefully, and he essayed a perfectly casual manner, and 
pretended to be busy assorting pieces of pottery. She must 
have no cause again to suffer shame for curiosity of his. Yet 
never in all his days had he been so eager to hear the details 
of anyone’s life. 

“When I rode— I rode like the wind,” she replied, “and never 
had time to stop for anything.” 

“I remember that day I — I met you in the pass ^how 
you were, how tired your horse looked. Were you always riding? 

“Oh, no. Sometimes not for months, when I was shut up 
in the cabin.” 


130 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

Venters tried to subdue a hot tingling. 

‘‘You were shut up, then.?^” he asked, carelessly. 

“When Oldring went away on his long trips— he was gone 
for months sometimes — he shut me up in the cabin.” 

“What for?” 

“Perhaps to keep me from running away. I always threat- 
ened that. Mostly, though, because the men got drunk at the 
villages. But they were always good to me. I wasn’t afraid.” 

“ A prisoner ! That must have been hard on you? ” 

“I liked that. As long as I can remember I’ve been locked 
up there at times, and those times were the only happy ones 
I ever had. It s a big cabin high up on a cliff, and I could look 
out. Then I had dogs and pets I had tamed, and books. There 
was a spring inside, and food stored, and the men brought me 
fresh meat. Once I was there one whole winter.” 

It now required deliberation on Venters’s part to persist in 
his unconcern and to keep at work. He wanted to look at her, 
to volley questions at her. 

“As long as you can remember— you’ve lived in Deception 
Pass?” he went on. 

“I’ve a dim memory of some other place, and women and 
children; but I can’t make anything of it. Sometimes I think 
till I’m weary.” 

“Then you can read— you have books?” 

“Oh yes, I can read, and write, too, pretty well. Oldring is 
educated. He taught me, and years ago an old rustler lived 
with us, and he had been something different once. He was 
always teaching me.” 

“So Oldring takes long trips,” mused Venters. “Do you 
know where he goes?” 

“No. Every year he drives cattle north of Sterling— then 
does not return for months. I heard him accused once of living 
two lives — and he killed the man. That was at Stone Bridge.” 


LOVE 


131 


Venters dropped his apparent task and looked up with an 
eagerness he no longer strove to hide. 

“Bess,” he said, using her name for the first time, “I sus- 
pected Oldring was something besides a rustler. Tell me, what's 
his purpose here in the pass? I believe much that he has done 
was to hide his real work here.” 

“You’re right. He’s more than a rustler. In fact, as the 
men say, his rustling cattle is now only a bluff. There’s gold in 
the canons!” 

“Ah!” 

“Yes, there’s gold, not in great quantities, but gold enough 
for him and his men. They wash for gold week in and week out. 
Then they drive a few cattle and go into the villages to drink 
and shoot and kill — to bluff the riders.” 

“Drive a few cattle! But, Bess, the Withersteen herd, the 
red herd — twenty -five hundred head! That’s not a few. And 
I tracked them into a valley near here.” 

“Oldring never stole the red herd. He made a deal with 
Mormons. The riders were to be called in, and Oldring was 
to drive the herd and keep it till a certain time — I don’t know 
when — then drive it back to the range. What his share was 1 
didn’t hear.” 

“Did you hear why that deal was made?” queried Venters. 

“No. But it was a trick of Mormons. They’re full of tricks. 
I’ve heard Oldring’s men tell about Mormons. Maybe the 
Withersteen woman wasn’t minding her halter! I saw the man 
who made the deal. He was a little, queer-shaped man, all 
humped up. He sat his horse well. I heard one of our men say 
afterward there was no better rider on the sage than this fellow. 
What was the name? I forget.” 

“Jerry Card?” suggested Venters. 

“That’s it. I remember — it’s a name easy to remember — 
and Jerry Card appeared to be on fair terms with Oldring’s men.” 


132 RIDERS OP THE PURPLE SAGE 

‘T shouldn’t wonder,” replied Venters, thoughtfully. Veri- 
fication of his suspicions in regard to Tull’s underhand work — 
for the deal with Oldring made by Jerry Card assuredly had its 
inception in the Mormon Elder’s brain, and had been accomplished 
through his orders — revived in Venters a memory of hatred 
that had been smothered by press of other emotions. Only a 
few days had elapsed since the hour of his encounter with Tull, 
yet they had been forgotten and now seemed far off, and the 
interval one that low appeared large and profound with incal- 
culable change in his feelings. Hatred of Tull still existed in 
his heart; but it had lost its white heat. His affection for Jane 
Withersteen had not changed in the; least nevertheless he seemed 
to view it from another angle and see it as another thing — what, 
he could not exactly define. The recalling of these two feelings 
was to Venters like getting glimpses into a self that was gone; 
and the wonder of them — ^perhaps the change which was too 
illusive for him— was the fact that a strange irritation accom- 
panied the memory and a desire to dismiss it from mind. And 
straightway he did dismiss it, to return to thoughts of his signifi- 
cant present. 

“Bess, tell me one more thing,” he said. “Haven’t you 
known any women — any young people.^” 

“Sometimes there were women with the men; but Oldring 
never let me know them. And all the young people I ever saw 
in my life was when I rode fast through the villages.” 

Perhaps that was the most puzzling and thought-provoking 
thing she had yet said to Venters. He pondered, more curious 
the more he learned, but he curbed his inquisitive desires, for 
he saw her shrinking on the verge of that shame, the causing of 
which had occasioned him such self-reproach. He would ask no 
more. Still he had to think, and he found it difficult to thint- 
clearly. This sad-eyed girl was so utterly different from what 
it would have been reason to beheve such a remarkable life would 


LOVE 133 

have made her. On this day he had found her simple and frank, 
as natural as any girl he had ever known. About her there was 
something sweet. Her voice was low and well-modulated. He 
could not look into her face, meet her steady, unabashed, yet 
wistful eyes and think of her as the woman she had confessed 
herself. Oldring’s Masked Rider sat before him, a girl dressed 
as a man. She had been made to ride at the head of infamous 
forays and drives. She had been imprisoned for many months 
of her life in an obscure cabin. At times the most vicious of men 
had been her companions; and the vilest of women, if they had 
not been permitted to approach her, had, at least, cast their 
shadows over her. But — but in spite of all this — there thundered 
at Venters some truth that lifted its voice higher than the clamor- 
ing facts of dishonor, some truth that was the very life of her 
beautiful eyes; and it was innocence. 

In the days that followed. Venters balanced perpetually in 
mind this haunting conception of innocence over against the cold 
and sickening fact of an unintentional yet actual guilt. How 
could it be possible for the two things to be true.^ He believed 
the latter to be true, and he would not relinquish his conviction 
of the former; and these conflicting thoughts augmented the 
mystery that appeared to be a part of Bess. In those ensuing 
days, however, it became clear as clearest light that Bess was 
rapidly regaining strength; that, unless reminded of her long 
association with Oldring, she seemed to have forgotten it; that, 
like an Indian who lives solely from moment to moment, she was 
utterly absorbed in the present. 

Day by day Venters watched the white of her face slowly 
change to brown, and the wasted cheeks fill out by imperceptible 
degrees. There came a time when he could just trace the line 
of demarcation between the part of her face once hidden by a 
mask and that left exposed to wind and sun. When that line 
disappeared in clear bronze tan it was as if she had been washed 


134 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

clean of the stigma of Oldring’s Masked Rider. The suggestion 
of the mask always made Venters remember; now that it was 
gone he seldom thought of her past. Occasionally he tried to 
piece together the several stages of strange experienee and to 
make a whole. He had shot a masked outlaw, the very sight of 
whom had been ill omen to riders; he had carried off a wounded 
woman whose bloody bps quivered in prayer; he had nursed 
what seemed a frail, shrunken boy; and now he watched a girl 
whose face had become strangely sweet, whose dark-blue eyes 
were ever upon him without boldness, without shyness, but 
with a steady, grave, and growing light. Many times Venters 
found the clear gaze embarrassing to him, yet, like wine, it had 
an exhilarating effect. What did she think when she looked at 
him so? Almost he believed she had no thought at all. All 
about her and the present there in Surprise Valley, and the dim 
yet subtly impending future, fascinated Venters and made him 
thoughtful as all his lonely vigils in the sage had not. 

Chiefly it was the present that he wished to dwell upon; but 
it was the call of the future which stirred him to action. No 
idea had he of what that future had in store for Bess and him. 
He began to think of improving Surprise Valley as a place to 
live in, for there was no telling how long they would be compelled 
to stay there. Venters stubbornly resisted the entering into his 
mind of an insistent thought that, clearly realized, might have 
made it plain to him that he did not want to leave Surprise 
Valley at all. But it was imperative that he consider practical 
matters; and whether or not he was destined to stay long there, he 
felt the immediate need of a change of diet. It would be neces- 
sary for him to go farther afield for a variety of meat, and also 
that he soon visit Cottonwoods for a supply of food. 

It occurred again to Venters that he could go to the canon 
where Oldring kept his cattle, and at little risk he could pack 
out some beef. He wished to do this, however, without letting 


LOVE 


135 


Bess know of it till after he had made the trip. Presently he 
hit upon the plan of going while she was asleep. 

That very night he stole out of camp, climbed up under the 
stone bridge, and entered the outlet to the pass. The gorge was 
full of luminous gloom. Balancing Bock loomed dark and leaned 
over the pale descent. Transformed in the shadowy light, it 
took shape and dimensions of a spectral god waiting — waiting 
for the moment to hurl himself down upon the tottering walls 
and close forever the outlet to Deception Pass. At night more 
than by day Venters felt something fearful and fateful in that 
rock, and that it had leaned and waited through a thousand years 
to have somehow to deal with his destiny. 

‘‘Old man, if you must roll, wait till I get back to the girl, 
and then roll ! ” he said, aloud, as if the stone were indeed a god. 

And those spoken words, in their grim note to his ear as well 
as content to his mind, told Venters that he was all but drifting 
on a current which he had not power nor wish to stem. 

Venters exercised his usual care in the matter of hiding tracks 
from the outlet, yet it took him scarcely an hour to reach Old- 
ring’s cattle. Here sight of many calves changed his original 
intention, and instead of packing out meat he decided to take 
a calf out alive. He roped one, securely tied its feet, and swung 
it up over his shoulder. Here was an exceedingly heavy burden, 
but Venters was powerful — he could take up a sack of grain 
and with ease pitch it over a pack-saddle — and he made long 
distance without resting. The hardest work came in the climb 
up to the outlet and on through to the valley. When he had 
accomplished it, he became fired with another idea that again 
changed his intention. He would not kill the calf, but keep it 
alive. He would go back to Oldring’s herd and pack out more 
calves. Thereupon he secured the calf in the best available spot 
for the moment and turned to make a second trip. 

When Venters got back to the valley with another calf, it was 

10 


136 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


close upon daybreak. He crawled into his cave and slept late. 
Bess had no inkling that he had been absent from camp nearly 
all night, and only remarked solicitously that he appeared to be 
more tired than usual, and more in the need of sleep. In the 
afternoon Venters built a gate across a small ravine near camp, 
and here corralled the calves; and he succeeded in completing 
his task without Bess being any the wiser. 

That night he made two more trips to Oldring’s range, and 
again on the following night, and yet another on the next. With 
eight calves in his corral, he concluded that he had enough; but 
it dawned upon him then that he did not want to kill one. ‘TVe 
rustled Oldring’s cattle,” he said, and laughed. He noted then 
that all the calves were red. “Red!” he exclaimed. “From 
the red herd. IVe stolen Jane Withersteen’s cattle! . . . That’s 
about the strangest thing yet.” 

One more trip he undertook to Oldring’s valley, and this 
time he roped a yearling steer and killed it and cut out a small 
quarter of beef. The howling of coyotes told him he need have 
no apprehension that the work of his knife would be discovered. 
He packed the beef back to camp and hung it upon a spruce- 
tree. Then he sought his bed. 

On the morrow he was up bright and early, glad that he had 
a surprise for Bess. He could hardly wait for her to come out. 
Presently she appeared and walked under the spruce. Then she 
approached the camp-fire. There was a tinge of healthy red in 
the bronze of her cheeks, and her slender form had begun to 
round out in graceful lines. 

“Bess, didn’t you say you were tired of rabbit?” inquired 
Venters. “And quail and beaver?” 

“Indeed I did.” 

“What would you like?” 

“I’m tired of meat, but if we hav^e to live on it I’d like some 
beef.” 


LOVE 137 

“Well, how does that strike you?” Venters pointed to the 
quarter hanging from the spruce-tree. “We’ll have fresh beef 
for a few days, then we’ll cut the rest into strips and dry it.” 

“Where did you get that?” asked Bess, slowly, 
stole that from Oldring.” 

‘You went back to the canon— you risked—” While she 
hesitated, the tinge of bloom faded out of her cheeks. 

“It wasn’t any risk, but it was hard work.” 

“Fm sorry I said I was tired of rabbit. Why! How— when 
did you get that beef?” 

“Last night.” 

“Wliile I was asleep?” 

“Yes.” 

“I woke last night sometime — but I didn’t know.” 

Her eyes were widening, darkening with thought, and when- 
ever they did so the steady, watchful, seeing gaze gave place to 
the wistful light. In the former she saw as the primitive woman 
without thought; in the latter she looked inward, and her gaze 
was the reflection of a troubled mind. For long Venters had not 
seen that dark change, that deepening of blue, which he thought 
was beautiful and sad. But now he wanted to make her think. 

“I’ve done more than pack in that beef,” he said. “For 
five nights I’ve been working while you slept. I’ve got eight 
calves corralled near a ravine. Eight calves, all alive and doing 
fine ! ” ^ 

“You went five nights!” 

All that Venters could make of the dilation of her eyes, her 
slow pallor, and her exclamation, was fear — ^fear for herself or 
for him. 

“Yes. I didn’t tell you, because I knew you were afraid to 
be left alone.” 

“Alone?” She echoed his word, but the meaning of it was 
nothing to her. She had not even thought of being left alone. 


138 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


It was not, then, fear for herself, but for him. This girl, always 
slow of speech and action, now seemed almost stupid. She put 
forth a hand that might have indicated the groping of her mind. 
Suddenly she stepped swiftly to him, with a look and touch that 
drove from him any doubt of her quick intelligence or feeling. 

‘‘Oldring has men watch the herds — they would kill you — 
you must never go again!” 

When she had spoken, the strength and the blaze of her died, 
and she swayed toward Venters. 

“Pm, Til not go again , he said, catching her. 

She leaned against him, and her body was limp, and vibrated 
to a long, wavering tremble. Her face was upturned to his. 
Woman’s face, woman’s eyes, woman’s lips — all acutely and 
blindly and sweetly and terribly truthful in their betrayal! 
But as her fear was instinctive, so was her clinging to this one 
and only friend. 

Venters gently put her from him and steadied her upon her 
feet; and all the while his blood raced wild, and a thrilling 
tingle unsteadied his nerve, and something — that he had seen 
and felt in her — that he could not understand — seemed very 
close to him, warm and rich as a fragrant breath, sweet as nothing 
had ever before been sweet to him. 

With all his will Venters strove for calmness and thought and 
judgment unbiased by pity, and reality unswayed by sentiment. 
Bess’s eyes were still fixed upon him with all her soul bright in 
that wistful light. Swiftly, resolutely he put out of mind all 
of her life except what had been spent with him. He scorned 
himself for the intelligence that made him still doubt. He 
meant to judge her as she had judged him. He was face to face 
with the inevitableness of life itself. He saw destiny in the 
dark, straight path of her wonderful eyes. Here was the sim- 
plicity, the sweetness of a girl contending with new and strange 
and enthralling emotions; here the living truth of innocence; 





BESS, i’ll not go AGAIN 




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LOVE 


139 


here the blind terror of a woman confronted with the thought of 
death to her savior and protector. All this Venters saw, but, 
besides, there was in Bess’s eyes a slow-dawning consciousness 
that seemed about to break out in glorious radiance. 

“Bess, are you thinking.^” he asked. 

“Yes — oh yes!” 

“Do you realize we are here alone — man and woman 

“Yes.” 

“Have you thought that we may make our way out to 
civilization, or we may have to stay here — alone — hidden from 
the world all our lives?” 

“I never thought — till now.” 

“Well, what’s your choice — to go — or to stay here — alone 
with me?” 

“Stay!” New-born thought of self, ringing vibrantly in her 
voice, gave her answer singular power. 

Venters trembled, and then swiftly turned his gaze from her 
face — ^from her eyes. He knew what she had only half divined 
— that she loved him. 


CHAPTER XI 


FAITH AND UNFAITH 


At Jane Withersteen’s home the promise made to Mrs. Larkin 
r\. to care for little Fay had begun to be fulfilled. Like a 
gleam of sunlight through the cottonwoods was the coming of 
the child to the gloomy house of Withersteen. The big, silent 
halls echoed with childish laughter. In the shady court, where 
Jane spent many of the hot July days. Fay’s tiny feet pattered 
over the stone flags and splashed in the amber stream. She 
prattled incessantly. What difference, Jane thought, a child 
made in her home! It had never been a real home, she dis- 
covered. Even the tidiness and neatness she had so observed, 
and upon which she had insisted to her women, became, in 
the light of Fay s smile, habits that now lost their importance. 
Fay littered the court with Jane’s books and papers, and other 
toys her fancy improvised, and many a strange craft went 
floating down the little brook. 

And it was owing to Fay’s presence that Jane Withersteen 
came to see more of Lassiter. The rider had for the most part 
kept to the sage. He rode for her, but he did not seek her 
except on business; and Jane had to acknowledge in pique that 
her overtures had been made in vain. Fay, however, captured 
Lassiter the moment he first laid eyes on her. 

Jane was present at the meeting, and there was something 
about It which dimmed her sight and softened her toward this 
foe of her people. The rider had clanked into the court a 


FAITH AND UNFAITH 


141 


tired yet wary man, always looking for the attack upon him 
that was inevitable and might come from any quarter; and he 
had walked right upon little Fay. The child had been beautiful 
even in her rags and amid the surroundings of the hovel in the 
sage; but now, in a pretty white dress, with her shining curls 
brushed and her face clean and rosy, she was lovely. She left 
her play and looked up at Lassiter. 

If there was not an instinct for all three of them in that 
meeting, an unreasoning tendency toward a closer intimacy, 
then Jane Withersteen believed she had been subject to a queer 
fancy. She imagined any child would have feared Lassiter. 
And Fay Larkin had been a lonely, a solitary elf of the sage, 
not at all an ordinary child, and exquisitely shy with strangers. 
She watched Lassiter with great, round, grave eyes, but showed 
no fear. The rider gave Jane a favorable report of cattle and 
horses; and as he took the seat to which she invited him, little 
Fay edged as much as half an inch nearer. Jane replied to his 
look of inquiry and told Fay’s story. The rider’s gray, earnest 
gaze troubled her. Then he turned to Fay and smiled in a 
way that made Jane doubt her sense of the true relation of 
things. How could Lassiter smile so at a child when he had 
made so many children fatherless? But he did smile, and to 
the gentleness she had seen a few times, he added something 
that was infinitely sad and sweet. Jane’s intuition told her 
that Lassiter had never been a father; but if life ever so 
blessed bim he would be a good one. Fay, also, must have 
found that smile singularly winning. For she edged closer and 
closer, and then, by way of feminine capitulation, went to 
Jane, from whose side she bent a beautiful glance upon the 
rider. 

Lassiter only smiled at her. 

Jane watched them, and realized that now was the moment 
she should seize, if she was ever to win this man from his hatred. 


142 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


But the step was not easy to take. The more she saw of Lassiter 
the more she respected him, and the greater her respect the 
harder it became to lend herself to mere coquetry. Yet as she 
thought of her great motive, jof Tull, and of that other whose 
name she had schooled herself never to think of in connection 
with Milly Erne’s avenger, she suddenly found she had no 
choice. And her creed gave her boldness far beyond the limit 
to which vanity would have led her. 

“Lassiter, I see so little of you now,” she said, and was 
conscious of heat in her cheeks. 

“I’ve been ridin’ hard,” he replied. 

“But you can’t live in the saddle. You come in sometimes. 
Won’t you come here to see me — oftener.^” 

“Is that an order.?” 

“Nonsense! I simply ask you to come to see me when you 
find time.” 

“Why.?” 

The query once heard was not so embarrassing to Jane as 
she might have imagined. Moreover, it established in her mind 
a fact that there existed actually other than selfish reasons for 
her wanting to see him. And as she had been bold, so she 
determined to be both honest and brave. 

“I’ve reasons — only one of which I need mention,” she 
answered. “If it’s possible I want to change you toward my 
people. And on the moment I can conceive of little I wouldn’t 
do to gain that end.” 

How much better and freer Jane felt after that confession! 
She meant to show him that there was one Mormon who could 
play a game or wage a fight in the open. 

“I reckon,” said Lassiter, and he laughed. 

It was the best in her, if the most irritating, that Lassiter 
always aroused. 

“Will you come.?” She looked into his eyes, and for the 


FAITH AND UNFAITH 


143 


life of her could not quite subdue an imperiousness that rose 
with her spirit. ‘T never asked so much of any man — except 
Bern Venters.” 

“ Tears to me that you’d run no risk, or Venters, either. 
But mebbe that doesn’t hold good for me.” 

‘‘You mean it wouldn’t be safe for you to be often here? 
You look for ambush in the cottonwoods?” 

“Not that so much.” 

At this juncture little Fay sidled over to Lassiter. 

“Has oo a little dirl?” she inquired. 

“No, lassie,” replied the rider. 

Whatever Fay seemed to be searching for in Lassiter’s sun- 
reddened face and quiet eyes she evidently found. “Oo tan 
turn to see me,” she added, and with that, shyness gave place 
to friendly curiosity. First his sombrero with its leather band 
and silver ornaments commanded her attention; next his quirt, 
and then the clinking, silver spurs. These held her for some 
time, but presently, true to childish fickleness, she left off playing 
with them to look for something else. She laughed in glee as 
she ran her little hands down the slippery, shiny surface of 
Lassiter’s leather chaps. Soon she discovered one of the hanging 
gun-sheaths, and she dragged it up and began tugging at the 
huge black handle of the gun. Jane Withersteen repressed an 
exclamation. What significance there was to her in the little 
girl’s efforts to dislodge that heavy weapon! Jane Withersteen 
saw Fay’s play and her beauty and her love as most powerful 
allies to her own woman’s part in a game that suddenly had 
acquired a strange zest and a hint of danger. And as for the 
rider, he appeared to have forgotten Jane in the wonder of this 
lovely child playing about him. At first he was the shyer 
of the two. Gradually her confidence overcame his backward- 
ness, and he had the temerity to stroke her golden curls with a 
great hand. Fay rewarded his boldness with a smile, and when 


144 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


he had gone to the extreme of closing that great hand over her 
little brown one, she said, simply, ‘T like oo!” 

Sight of his face then made Jane oblivious for the time to his 
character as a hater of Mormons. Out of the mother longing 
that swelled her breast she divined the child hunger in Lassiter. 

He returned the next day, and the next; and upon the 
following he came both at morning and at night. Upon the 
evening of this fourth day Jane seemed to feel the breaking of a 
brooding struggle in Lassiter. During all these visits he had 
scarcely a word to say, though he watched her and played absent- 
mindedly with Fay. Jane had contented herself with silence. 
Soon little Fay substituted for the expression of regard, ‘T 
like oo,” a warmer and more generous one, ‘T love oo.” 

Thereafter Lassiter came oftener to see Jane and her little 
protegee. Daily he grew more gentle and kind, and gradually 
developed a quaintly merry mood. In the morning he lifted 
Fay upon his horse and let her ride as he walked beside her 
to the edge of the sage. In the evening he played with the 
child at an infinite variety of games she invented, and then, 
oftener than not, he accepted Jane’s invitation to supper. No 
other visitor came to Withersteen House during those days. So 
that in spite of watchfulness he never forgot, Lassiter began to 
show he felt at home there. After the meal they walked into 
the grove of cottonwoods or up by the lakes, and little Fay held 
Lassiter’s hand as much as she held Jane’s. Thus a strange 
relationship was established, and Jane liked it. At twilight 
they always returned to the house, where Fay kissed them 
and went in to her mother. Lassiter and Jane were left alone. 

Then, if there was anything that a good woman could do to 
win a man and still preserve her self-respect, it was something 
which escaped the natural subtlety of a woman determined to 
allure. Jane’s vanity, that after all was not great, was soon 
satisfied with Lassiter’s silent admiration. And her honest 


145 


FAITH AND UNFAITH 

desire to lead him from his dark, blood-stained path would 
never have blinded her to what she owed herself. But the 
driving passion of her religion, and its call to save Mormons’ 
lives, one life in particular, bore Jane Withersteen close to an 
infringement of her womanhood. In the beginning she had 
reasoned that her appeal to Lassiter must be through the senses. 
With whatever means she possessed in the way of adornment she 
enhanced her beauty. And she stooped to artifices that she 
knew were unworthy of her, but which she deliberately chose to 
employ. She made of herseK a girl ip every variable mood 
wherein a girl might be desirable. In those moods she was not 
above the methods of an inexperienced though natural flirt. 
She kept close to him whenever opportunity afforded; and she 
was forever playfully, yet passionately underneath the surface, 
fighting him for possession of the great black guns. These he 
would never yield to her. And so in that manner their hands 
were often and long in contact. The more of simplicity that 
she sensed in him the greater the advantage she took. 

She had a trick of changing— and it was not altogether 
voluntary — from this gay, thoughtless, girlish coquetishness to 
the silence and the brooding, burning mystery of a woman’s 
mood. The strength and passion and fire of her were in her 
eyes, and she so used them that Lassiter had to see this depth 
in her, this haunting promise more fitted to her years than to 
the flaunting guise of a wilful girl. 

The July days flew by. Jane reasoned that if it were pos- 
sible for her to be happy during such a time, then she was happy. 
Little Fay completely filled a long aching void in her heart. 
In fettering the hands of this Lassiter she was accomplishing 
the greatest good of her life, and to do good even in a small 
way rendered happiness to Jane Withersteen. She had attended 
the regular Sunday services of her church; otherwise she had 
not gone to the village for weeks. It was unusual that none 


146 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


of her churchmen or friends had called upon her of late; but 
it was neglect for which she was glad. Judkins and his boy 
riders had experienced no difficulty in driving the white herd. 
So these warm July days were free of worry, and soon Jane 
hoped she had passed the crisis; and for her to hope was pres- 
ently to trust, and then to believe. She thought often of Venters, 
but in a dreamy, abstract way. She spent hours teaching and 
playing with little Fay. And the activity of her mind centered 
around Lassiter. The direction she had given her will seemed 
to blunt any branching off of thought from that straight line. 
The mood came to obsess her. 

In the end, when her awakening came, she learned that she 
had builded better than she knew. Lassiter, though kinder 
and gentler than ever, had parted with his quaint humor and 
his coldness and his tranquillity to become a restless and unhappy 
man. Whatever the power of his deadly intent toward Mor- 
mons, that passion now had a rival, and one equally burning 
and consuming. Jane Withersteen had one moment of exulta- 
tion before the dawn of a strange uneasiness. What if she 
had made of herself a lure, at tremendous cost to him and to her, 
and all in vain! 

That night in the moonlit grove she summoned all her comage, 
and, turning suddenly in the path, she faced Lassiter and leaned 
close to him, so that she touched him and her eyes looked up 
to his. 

“Lassiter! . . . Will you do anything for me?” 

In the moonlight she saw his dark, worn face change, and 
by that change she seemed to feel him immovable as a wall 
of stone. 

Jane slipped her hands down to the swinging gun-sheaths, 
and, when she had locked her fingers around the huge, cold 
handles of the guns, she trembled as with a chilling ripple over 
all her body. 


FAITH AND UNFAITH 


147 


“May I take your guns?” 

“Why?” he asked, and for the first time to her his voice 
carried a harsh note. Jane felt his hard, strong hands close 
round her wrists. It was not wholly with intent that she leaned 
toward him, for the look of his eyes and the feel of his hands 
made her weak. 

“It’s no trifle — ^no woman’s whim — it’s deep — as my heart. 
Let me take them?” 

“Why?” 

“I want to keep you from killing more men — Mormons. 
You must let me save you from more wickedness — ^more wanton 
bloodshed — ” Then the truth forced itself falteringly from 
her lips. “You must — ^let — me — ^help me to keep my vow to 
Milly Erne. I swore to her — as she lay dying — that if ever 
any one came here to avenge her — ^I swore I would stay his hand. 
Perhaps I — I alone can save the — the man who — who — oh, 
Lassiter! ... I feel that if I can’t change you — ^then soon you’ll 
go out to kill — and you’ll kill by instinct — and among the 
Mormons you kill will be the one — who . . . Lassiter, if you 
care a little for me — let me — ^for my sake — let me take your 
guns!” 

As if her hands had been those of a child, he unclasped their 
clinging grip from the handles of his guns, and, pushing her 
away, he turned his gray face to her in one look of terrible realiza- 
tion, and then strode off into the shadows of the cottonwoods. 

When the first shock of her futile appeal to Lassiter had 
passed, Jane took his cold, silent condemnation and abrupt 
departure not as much as a refusal to her entreaty as a hurt 
and stunned bitterness for her attempt at his betrayal. Upon 
further thought and slow consideration of Lassiter’s past actions, 
she believed he would return and forgive her. The man could 
not be hard to a woman, and she doubted that he could stay 
away from her. But at the point where she had hoped to find 


148 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

him vulnerable she now began to fear he was proof against all 
persuasion. The iron-and-stone quality that she had early 
suspected in him had actually cropped out as an impregnable 
barrier. Nevertheless, if Lassiter remained in Cottonwoods, 
she would never give up her hope and desire to change him. 
She would change him if she had to sacrifice everything dear to 
her except hope of heaven. Passionately devoted as she was to 
her religion, she had yet refused to marry a Mormon. But a 
situation had developed wherein self paled in the great white 
light of religious duty of the highest order. That was the 
leading motive, the divinely spiritual one; but there were other 
motives, which, like tentacles, aided in drawing her will to 
the acceptance of a possible abnegation. And through the 
watches of that sleepless night Jane Withersteen, in fear and 
sorrow and doubt, came finally to believe that if she must throw 
herself into Lassiter’s arms to make him abide by “Thou shalt 
not kill!” she would yet do well. 

In the morning she expected Lassiter at the usual hour, but 
she was not able to go at once to the court, so she sent little 
Fay. Mrs. Larkin was ill and required attention. It appeared 
that the mother, from the time of her arrival at Withersteen 
House, had relaxed and was slowly losing her hold on life. Jane 
had believed that absence of worry and responsibility coupled 
with good nursing and comfort would mend Mrs. Larkin’s 
broken health. Such, however, was not the case. 

Wlien Jane did get out to the court. Fay was there alone, 
and at the moment embarking on a dubious voyage down the 
stone-lined amber stream upon a craft of two brooms and a 
pillow. Fay was as delightfully wet as she could possibly wish 
to get. 

Clatter of hoofs distracted Fay and interrupted the scolding 
she was gleefully receiving from Jane. The sound was not the 
light-spirited trot that Bells made when Lassiter rode him into 


FAITH AND UNFAITH 


149 


the outer court. This was slower and heavier, and Jane did 
not recognize in it any of her other horses. The appearance of 
Bishop Dyer startled Jane. He dismounted with his rapid, 
jerky motion, flung the bridle, and, as he turned toward the 
inner court and stalked up on the stone flags, his boots rang. 
In his authoritative front, and in the red anger unmistakably 
flaming in his face, he reminded Jane of her father. 

“Is that the Larkin pauper.^” he asked, bruskly, without 
any greeting to Jane. 

“It’s Mrs. Larkin’s little girl,” replied Jane, slowly. 

“I hear you intend to raise the child 

“Yes.” 

“Of course you mean to give her Mormon bringing-up?” 
“No!” 

His questions had been swift. She was amazed at a feeling 
that some one else was replying for her. 

“I’ve come to say a few things to you.” He stopped to 
measure her with stern, speculative eye. 

Jane Withersteen loved this man. From earliest childhood 
she had been taught to revere and love bishops of her church. 
And for ten years Bishop Dyer had been the closest friend and 
counselor of her father, and for the greater part of that period 
her own friend and Scriptural teacher. Her interpretation of 
her creed and her religious activity in fidelity to it, her acceptance 
of mysterious and holy Mormon truths, were all invested in this 
Bishop. Bishop Dyer as an entity was next to God. He was 
God’s mouthpiece to the little Mormon community at Cotton- 
woods. God revealed himself in secret to this mortal. 

And Jane Withersteen suddenly suffered a paralyzing affront 
to her consciousness of reverence by some strange irresistible 
twist of thought wherein she saw this Bishop as a man. And 
the train of thought hurdled the rising, crying protests of ^ that 
other self whose poise she had lost. It was not her Bishop 


150 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


who eyed her in curious measurement. It was a man who 
tramped into her presence without removing his hat, who had no 
greeting for her, who had no semblance of courtesy. In looks, 
as in action, he made her think of a bull stamping cross-grained 
into a corral. She had heard of Bishop Dyer forgetting the 
minister in the fury of a common man, and now she was to feel 
it. The glance by which she measured him in turn momentarily 
veiled the divine in the ordinary. He looked a rancher; he 
was booted, spurred, and covered with dust; he carried a gun at 
his hip, and she remembered that he had been known to use it. 
But during the long moment while he watched her there was 
nothing commonplace in the slow-gathering might of his wrath. 

‘‘Brother Tull has talked to me,” he began. “It was your 
father’s wish that you marry Tull, and my order. You refused 
him?” 

“Yes.” 

“You would not give up your friendship with that tramp 
Venters?” 

“No.” 

“But you’ll do as 1 order!” he thundered. “Why, Jane 
Withersteen, you are in danger of becoming a heretic! You 
can thank your Gentile friends for that. You face the danming 
of your soul to perdition.” 

In the flux and reflux of the whirling torture of Jane’s mind, 
that new, daring spirit of hers vanished in the old habitual order 
of her life. She was a Mormon, and the Bishop regained 
ascendance. 

“It’s well I got to you in time, Jane Withersteen. What 
would your father have said to these goings-on of yours? He 
would have put you in a stone cage on bread and water. He 
would have taught you something about Mormonism. Re- 
member, you’re a horn Mormon. There have been Mormons 
who turned heretic — damn their souls! — ^but no born Mormon 


151 


FAITH AND UNFAITH 

ever left us yet. Ah, I see your shame. Your faith is not 
shaken. You are only a wild girl.” The Bishop’s tone softened. 
"‘Well, it’s enough that I got to you in time. . . . Now tell me 
about this Lassiter. I hear strange things.” 

“What do you wish to know.^” queried Jane. 

“About this man. You hired him?” 

“Yes, he’s riding for me. When my riders left me I had 
to have any one I could get.” 

“Is it true what I hear — that he’s a gun-man, a Mormon- 
hater, steeped in blood?” 

“True — terribly true, I fear.” 

“But what’s he doing here in Cottonwoods? This place 
isn’t notorious enough for such a man. Sterling and the villages 
north, where there’s universal gun-packing and fights every day 
— where there are more men like him, it seems to me they would 
attract him most. We’re only a wild, lonely border settlement. 
It’s only recently that the rustlers have made killings here. 
Nor have there been saloons till lately, nor the drifting in of 
outcasts. Has not this gun-man some special mission here? ” 

Jane maintained silence. 

“Tell me,” ordered Bishop Dyer, sharply. 

“Yes,” she replied. 

“Do you know what it is?” 

“Yes.” 

“Tell me that.” 

“Bishop Dyer, I don’t want to tell.” 

He waved his hand in an imperative gesture of command. 
The red once more leaped to his face, and in his steel-blue eyes 
glinted a pin-point of curiosity. 

“That first day,” whispered Jane, “Lassiter said he came 
here to find— Milly Erne’s grave!” 

With downcast eyes Jane watched the swift flow of the 
amber water. She saw it and tried to think of it, of the stones, 
11 ' 


152 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

of the ferns; but, like her body, her mind was in a leaden vise. 
Only the Bishop s voice could release her. Seemingly there 
was silence of longer duration than all her former life. 

“For what — else?” When Bishop Dyer’s voice did cleave 
the silence it was high, curiously shrill, and on the point of 
breaking. It released Jane’s tongue, but she could not lift her 
eyes. 

“To kill the man who persuaded Milly Erne to abandon her 
home and her husband— and her God!” 

With wonderful distinctness Jane Withersteen heard her 
own clear voice. She heard the water murmur at her feet 
and flow on to the sea; she heard the rushing of all the waters 
in the world. They filled her ears with low, unreal murmurings 
these sounds that deadened her brain and yet could not break 
the long and terrible silence. Then, from somewhere — ^from 
an immeasurable distance — came a slow, guarded, clinking, 
clanking step. Into her it shot electrifying life. It released 
the weight upon her numbed eyelids. Lifting her eyes she saw- 
ashen, shaken, stricken— not the Bishop but the man! And 
beyond him from round the corner came that soft, silvery step. 

A long black boot with a gleaming spur swept into sight — and ^ 
then Lassiter! ^ Bishop Dyer did not see, did not hear: he 
stared at Jane in the throes of sudden revelation. 

“Ah, I understand!” he cried, in hoarse accents. “That’s 
why you made love to this Lassiter — to bind his hands!” 

It was Jane’s gaze riveted upon the rider that made Bishop 
Dyer turn. Then clear sight failed her. Dizzily, in a blur, 
she saw the Bishop’s hand jerk to his hip. She saw gleam 
of blue and spout of red. In her ears burst a thundering report, 
^e court floated in darkening circles around her, and she fell 
into utter blackness. 

The darkness lightened, turned to slow - drifting haze 
and lifted. Through a thin film of blue smoke she saw the 



IT WAS jane’s gaze RIVETED UPON THE RIDER THAT MADE BISHOP DYER TURN 





FAITH AND UNFAITH 


153 


rough-hewn timbers of the court roof. A cool, damp touch 
moved across her brow. She smelled powder, and it was that 
which galvanized her suspended thought. She moved, to see 
that she lay prone upon the stone flags with her head on Las- 
siter’s knee, and he was bathing her brow with water from the 
stream. The same swift glance, shifting low, brought into range 
of her sight a smoking gun and splashes of blood. 

she moaned, and was drifting, sinking again into 
darkness, when Lassiter’s voice arrested her. 

“ It ’s all right, Jane. It ’s all right. ” 

“ Did — ^you — ^kill — him? ” she whispered. 

“Who.^ That fat party who was here? No. I didn’t kill 
him.” 

“Oh! . . . Lassiter!” 

“Say! It was queer for you to faint. I thought you were 
such a strong woman, not faintish like that. You’re all right 
now — only some pale. I thought you’d never come to. But 
I’m awkward round women folks. I couldn’t think of anythin . 

“Lassiter! . . . the gun there! . . . the blood!” 

“So that’s troublin’ you. I reckon it needn’t. You see it 
was this way. I come round the house an’ seen that fat party 
an’ heard him talkin’ loud. Then he seen me, an’ very impolite 
goes straight for his gun. He oughtn’t have tried to throw a 
gun on me — whatever his reason was. For that s meetin me on 
my own grounds. I’ve seen runnin’ molasses that was quicker n 
him. Now I didn’t know who he was, visitor or friend or relation 
of yours, though I seen he was a Mormon all over, an’ I couldn’t 
get serious about shootin’. So I winged him ^put a bullet 
through his arm as he was pullin’ at his gun. An’ he dropped 
the gun there, an’ a little blood. I told him he d introduced 
himself sufllcient, an’ to please move out of my vicinity. An’ 
he went. ” 

Lassiter spoke with slow, cool, soothing voice, in which there 


154 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


was a hint of levity, and his touch, as he continued to bathe her 
brow, was gentle and steady. His impassive face and the kind, 
gray eyes further stilled her agitation. 

“He drew on you first, and you deliberately shot to cripple 
him — ^you wouldn’t kill him — ^you — Lassiter? 

“That’s about the size of it.” 

Jane kissed his hand. 

All that was calm and cool about Lassiter instantly vanished. 

“Don’t do that! I won’t stand it! An’ I don’t care a damn 
who that fat party was. ” 

He helped Jane to her feet and to a chair. Then with the 
wet scarf he had used to bathe her face he wiped the blood from 
the stone flags, and, picking up the gun, he threw it upon a couch. 
With that he began to pace the court, and his silver spurs jangled 
musically, and the great gun-sheaths softly brushed against his 
leather chaps. 

“So — ^it’s true — what I heard him say?’* Lassiter asked, 
presently halting before her. “You made love to me — to bind 
my hands.'^” 

“Yes,” confessed Jane. It took all her woman’s courage to 
meet the gray storm of his glance. 

“All these days that you’ve been so friendly an’ like a pardner 
— all these evenin’s that have been so bewilderin’ to me — ^your 
beauty — an’ — an’ the way you looked an’ came close to me — 
they were woman’s tricks to bind my hands?” 

“Yes.” 

“An ’ your sweetness that seemed so natural, an ’ your thro win ’ 
little Fay an’ me so much together — to make me love the child — 
all that was for the same reason?” 

“Yes.” 

Lassiter flung his arms — a strange gesture for him. 

“Mebbe it wasn’t much in your Mormon thinkin’, for you 
to play that game. But to ring the child in—that was hellish!” 


FAITH AND UNFAITH 


155 


Jane’s passionate, unheeding zeal began to loom darkly. 
“Lassiter, whatever my intention in the beginning. Fay 
loves you dearly — and I — I’ve — grown to — to like you.” 

“That’s powerful kind of you, now,” he said. Sarcasm and 
scorn made his voice that of a stranger. “An’ you sit thej;# an’ 
look me straight in the eyes! You’re a wonderful st|:ang'<^ woman, 
Jane Withersteen. ” „ v ^ 

“I’m not ashamed, Lassiter.^Ltbld you I’d try to change 
you.” 

“Would you mind^l^ellln’ me just what you tried.^” 

“ I tried to make ;^ou see beauty in me and be softened by it. 
I wanted you to ^are for me so that I could influence you. 
It wasn’t easy. At '■first you were stone-blind. Then I hoped 
you’d love little Fay, and through that come to feel the horror 
of making children fatherless.” 

“Jane Withersteen, either you’re a fool or noble beyond my 
understandin’. Mebbe you’re both. I know you’re blind. 
What you meant is one thing — what you did was to make me 
love you. ” 

“Lassiter!” 

“I reckon I’m a human bein’, though I never loved any one 
but my sister, Milly Erne. That was long — ” 

“Oh, are you Milly ’s brother?” 

“Yes, I was, an’ I loved her. There never was any one but 
her in my life till now. Didn’t I tell you that long ago I back- 
trailed myself from women? I was a Texas ranger till — till 
Milly left home, an’ then I becaipe >sO]^ethili’^‘else — ^Lassiter! 
For years I’ve been a lonely' hian here 
an’ met you. An’,g^^|^:^;^?i?^^^''ma'n I was. The change 
was gradual, of it. I understand now that 

never-satisfied loD^fe^ to see you, listen to you, watch you, feel 
you near me. It’s plain now why you were never out of my 
thoughts. I’ve had no thoughts but of you. I’ve lived an’ 


156 


RIDERS OP THE PURPLE SAGE 


breathed for you. An’ now when I know what it means — what 
you’ve done — I’m burnin’ up with hell’s fire!” 

“Oh, Lassiter — ^no — no — ^you don’t love me that way!” Jane 
cried. 

“If that’s what love is, then I do.” 

“Forgive me! I didn’t mean to make you love me like that. 
Oh, what a tangle of our lives! You — Milly Erne’s brother! 
And I — heedless, mad to melt your heart toward Mormons. 
Lassiter, I may be wicked, but not wicked enough to hate. If 
I couldn’t hate Tull, could I hate you?” 

“After all, Jane, mebbe you’re only blind — ^Mormon blind. 
That only can explain what’s close to selfishness — ” 

“I’m not selfish. I despise the very word. If I were free — ” 

“But you’re not free. Not free of Mormonism. An’ in 
playin’ this game with me you ’ve been unfaithful. ” 

“Un-faithful ! ” faltered Jane. 

“Yes, I said unfaithful. You’re faithful to your Bishop an’ 
unfaithful to yourself. You’re false to your womanhood, an’ 
true to your religion. But for a savin’ innocence you’d have 
made yourself low an’ vile — ^betrayin’ yourself, betrayin’ me — 
all to bind my hands an’ keep me from snuffin’ out Mormon 
life. It’s your damned Mormon blindness.” 

“Is it vile — is it blind — is it only Mormonism to save human 
life? No, Lassiter, that’s God’s law, divine, universal for all 
Christians. ” 

“The blindness I mean is blindness that keeps you from seein’ 
the truth. I’ve known many good Mormons. But some are 
blacker than hell. You won’t see that even when you know it. 
Else, why all this blind passion to save the life of that — that. . . . ” 

Jane shut out the light, and the hands she held over her eyes 
trembled and quivered against her face. 

“Blind — ^yes, an’ let me make it clear an’ simple to you,” 
Lassiter went on, his voice losing its tone of anger. “Take, for 


FAITH AND UNFAITH 


157 


instance, that idea of yours last night when you wanted my guns. 
It was good an’ beautiful, an’ showed your heart — but — why, 
Jane, it was crazy. Mind I’m assumin’ that life to me is as 
sweet as to any other man. An’ to preserve that life is each 
man’s first an’ closest thought. Where would any man be on 
this border without guns? Where, especially, would Lassiter be? 
Well, I’d be under the sage with thousands of other men now 
livin’, an’ sure better men than me. Gun-packin’ in the West 
since the Civil War has growed into a kind of moral law. An’ 
out here on this border it’s the difference between a man an’ some- 
thin’ not a man. Look what your takin’ Venters’s guns from 
him all but made him! Why, your churchmen carry guns. Tull 
has killed a man an’ drawed on others. Your Bishop has shot 
a half dozen men, an’ it wasn’t through prayers of his that they 
recovered. An’ to-day he’d have shot me if he d been quick 
enough on the draw. Could I walk or ride down into Cotton- 
woods without my guns? This is a wild time, Jane Withersteen, 
this year of our Lord 1871.” 

“No time — for a woman!” exclaimed Jane, brokenly. “Oh, 
Lassiter, I feel helpless— lost— and don’t know where to turn. 
If I am blind— then— I need some one— a friend— you, Lassiter- 
more than ever!” 

“Well, I didn’t say nothin’ about goin’ back on you, did I?” 


CHAPTER XII 


THE INVISIBLE HAND 

J ANE received a letter from Bishop Dyer, not in his own 
handwriting, which stated that the abrupt termination of 
their interview had left him in some doubt as to her future con- 
duct. A slight injury had incapacitated him from seeking 
another meeting at present, the letter went on to say, and ended 
with a request, which was virtually a command, that she call upon 
him at once. 

The reading of the letter acquainted Jane Withersteen with 
the fact that something within her had all but changed. She 
sent no reply to Bishop Dyer; nor did she go to see him. On 
Sunday she remained absent from the service — ^for the second 
time in years and though she did not actually suffer there was a 
deadlock of feelings deep within her, and the waiting for a balance 
to fall on either side was almost as bad as suffering. She had a 
gloomy expectancy of untoward circumstances, and with it a 
keen-edged curiosity to watch developments. She had a half- 
formed conviction that her future conduct — as related to her 
churchmen— was beyond her control and would be governed by 
their attitude toward her. Something was changing in her, 
forming, waiting for decision to make it a real and fixed thing! 
She had told Lassiter that she felt helpless and lost in the fateful 
tangle of their lives; and now she feared that she was approaching 
the same chaotic condition of mind in regard to her religion. It 
appalled her to find that she questioned phases of that religion. 


159 


THE INVISIBLE HAND 

Absolute faith had been her serenity. Though leaving her faith 
unshaken, her serenity had been disturbed, and now it was 
broken by open war between her and her ministers. That some- 
thing within her — a whisper — which she had tried in vain to 
hush had become a ringing voice, and it called to her to wait. 
She had transgressed no laws of God. Her churchmen, however 
invested with the power and the glory of a wonderful creed, 
however they sat in inexorable judgment of her, must now 
practise toward her the simple, common, Christian virtue they 
professed to preach, “Do unto others as you would have others 
do unto you!” 

Jane Wither steen, waiting in darkness of mind, remained 
faithful still. But it was darkness that must soon be pierced by 
light. If her faith were justified, if her churchmen were trying 
only to intimidate her, the fact would soon be manifest, as would 
their failure, and then she would redouble her zeal toward them 
and toward what had been the best work of her life — work for 
the welfare and happiness of those among whom she hved. 
Mormon and Gentile alike. If that secret, intangible power 
closed its toils round her again, if that great invisible hand moved 
here and there and everywhere, slowly paralyzing her with its 
mystery and its inconceivable sway over her affairs, then she 
would know beyond doubt that it was not chance, nor jealously, 
nor intimidation, nor ministeiial wrath at her revolt, but a cold 
and calculating policy thought out long before she was born, a 
dark, immutable will of whose empire she and all that was hers 
was but an atom. 

Then might come her ruin. Then might come her fall into 
black storm. Yet she would rise again, and to the light. God 
would be merciful to a driven woman who had lost her way. 

A week passed. Little Fay played and prattled and pulled 
at Lassiter’s big black guns. The rider came to Withersteen 
House oftener than ever. Jane saw a change in him, though it 


160 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

did not relate to his kindness and gentleness. He was quieter 
and more thoughtful. While playing with Fay or conversing 
with Jane he seemed to be possessed of another self that watched 
with cool, roving eyes, that listened, listened always as if the 
murmuring amber stream brought messages, and the moving 
leaves whispered something. Lassiter never rode Bells into the 
court any more, nor did he come by the lane or the paths. When 
he appeared it was suddenly and noiselessly out of the dark 
shadow of the grove. 

“I left Bells out in the sage,” he, said, one day at the end of 
that week. “I must carry water to him.” 

“Why not let him drink at the trough or here?” asked Jane, 
quickly. 

“I reckon it’ll be safer for me to slip through the grove. I’ve 
been watched when I rode in from the sage. ” 

“Watched? By whom?” 

“By a man who thought he was well hid. But my eyes are 
pretty sharp. An’ Jane,” he went on, almost in a whisper, 
“I reckon it’d be a good idea for us to talk low. You’re spied 
on here by your women.” 

“Lassiter!” she whispered in turn. “That’s hard to believe. 
My women love me. ” 

“What of that?” he asked. “Of course they love you. But 
they ’re Mormon women. ” 

Jane’s old, rebellious loyalty clashed with her doubt. 

“I won’t believe it,” she replied, stubbornly. 

“Well then, just act natural an’ talk natural, an’ pretty 
soon — ^give them time to hear us — ^pretend to go over there to 
the table, an’ then quick-like make a move for the door an’ 
open it.” 

“I will,” said Jane, with heightened color. Lassiter was 
right; he never made mistakes; he would not have told her 
unless he positively knew. Yet Jane was so tenacious of faith 


THE INVISIBLE HAND 


161 


that she had to see with her own eyes, and so constituted that 
to employ even such small deceit toward her women made her 
ashamed, and angry for her shame as well as theirs. Then a 
singular thought confronted her that made her hold up this sim- 
ple ruse — which hurt her, though it was well justified — against 
the deceit she had wittingly and eagerly used toward Lassiter. 
The difference was staggering in its suggestion of that blindness 
of which he had accused her. Fairness and justice and mercy, 
that she had imagined were anchor-cables to hold fast her soul 
to righteousness, had not been hers in the strange, biased duty 
that had so exalted and confounded her. 

Presently Jane began to act her little part, to laugh and 
play with Fay, to talk of horses and cattle to Lassiter. Then 
she made deliberate mention of a book in which she kept records 
of all pertaining to her stock, and she walked slowly toward the 
table, and when near the door she suddenly whirled and thrust it 
open. Her sharp action nearly knocked down a woman who had 
undoubtedly been listenting. 

“Hester,” said Jane, sternly, “you may go home, and you 
need not come back. ” 

Jane shut the door and returned to Lassiter. Standing un- 
steadily, she put her hand on his arm. She let him see that 
doubt had gone, and how this stab of disloyalty pained her. ^ 

“Spies! My own women! . . . Oh, miserable!” she cried, 
with flashing, tearful eyes. 

“I hate to tell you,” he replied. By that she knew he had 
long spared her. “It’s begun again that work in the dark. 

“Nay, Lassiter — it never stopped!” 

So bitter certainty claimed her at last, and trust fled Wither- 
steen House and fled forever. The women who owed much to 
Jane Withersteen changed not in love for her, not in devotion 
to their household work, but they poisoned both by a thousand 
acts of stealth and cunning and duplicity. Jane broke out once 


162 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


and caught them in strange, stone-faced, unhesitating falsehood. 
Thereafter she broke out no more. She forgave them because 
they were driven. Poor, fettered, and sealed Hagars, how she 
pitied them! What terrible thing bound them and locked their 
lips, when they showed neither consciousness of guilt toward 
their benefactress nor distress at the slow wearing apart of long 
established and dear ties.^ 

“The blindness again!” cried Jane Withersteen. “In my 
sisters as in me! ... O God!” 

There came a time when no words passed between Jane and 
her women. Silently they went about their household duties, 
and secretly they went about the underhand work to which they 
had been bidden. The gloom of the house and the gloom of its 
mistress, which darkened even the bright spirit of little Fay, did 
not pervade these women. Happiness was not among them, 
but they were aloof from gloom. They spied and listened; they 
received and sent secret messengers; and they stole Jane’s books 
and records, and finally the papers that were deeds of her posses- 
sions. Through it all they were silent, rapt in a kind of trance. 
Then one by one, without leave or explanation or farewell, they 
left Wilhersteen House and never returned. 

Coincident with this disappearance Jane’s gardeners and 
workers in the alfalfa fields and stable men quit her, not even 
asking for their wages. Of all her Mormon employees about 
the great ranch only Jerd remained. He went on with his duty, 
but talked no more of the change than if it had never occurred. 

“Jerd,” said Jane, “what stock you can’t take care of turn 
out in the sage. Let your first thought be for Black Star and 
Night. Keep them in perfect condition. Run them every day 
and watch them always.” 

Though Jane Withersteen gave with such liberality, she loved 
her possessions. She loved the rich, green stretches of alfalfa, 
and the farms, and the grove, and the old stone house, and the 


THE INVISIBLE HAND 


163 


beautiful, ever-faithful amber spring, and every one of a myriad 
of horses and colts and burros and fowls down to the smallest 
rabbit that nipped her vegetables; but she loved best her noble 
Arabian steeds. In common with all riders of the upland sage 
J ane cherished two material things — the cold, sweet, brown water 
that made life possible in the wilderness and the horses which 
were a part of that life. When Lassiter asked her what Lassiter 
would be without his guns he was assuming that his horse was 
part of himself. So Jane loved Black Star and Night because it 
was her nature to love all beautiful creatures — perhaps all living 
things; and then she loved them because she herself was of the 
sage and in her had been born and bred the rider’s instinct to 
rely on his four-footed brother. And when Jane gave Jerd the 
order to keep her favorites trained down to the day it was a half- 
unconscious admission that presaged a time when she would 
need her fleet horses. 

Jane had now, however, no leisure to brood over the coils 
that were closing round her. Mrs. Larkin grew weaker as the 
August days began; she required constant care; there was little 
Fay to look after; and such household work as was imperative. 
Lassiter put Bells in the stable with the other racers, and directed 
his efforts to a closer attendance upon Jane. She welcomed the 
change. He was always at hand to help, and it was her fortune 
to learn that his boast of being awkward around women had its 
root in humility and was not true. 

His great, brown hands were skilled in a multiplicity of ways 
which a woman might have envied. He shared Jane’s work, 
and was of especial help to her in nursing Mrs. Larkin. The 
woman suffered most at night, and this often broke Jane’s rest. 
So it came about that Lassiter would stay by Mrs. Larkin during 
the day, when she needed care, and Jane would make up the 
sleep she lost in night-watches. Mrs. Larkin at once took kindly 
to the gentle Lassiter, and, without ever asking who or what he 


164 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


was, praised him to Jane. “He’s a good man and loves children,” 
she said. How sad to hear this truth spoken of a man whom 
Jane thought lost beyond all redemption! Yet ever and ever 
Lassiter towered above her, and behind or through his black, 
sinister figure shone something luminous that strangely affected 
Jane. Good and evil began to seem incomprehensibly blended 
in her judgment. It was her belief that evil could not come 
forth from good; yet here was a murderer who dwarfed in gentle- 
ness, patience, and love any man she had ever known. 

She had almost lost track of her more outside concerns when 
early one morning Judkins presented himself before her in the 
courtyard. 

Thin, hard, burnt, bearded, with the dust and sage thick on 
him, with his leather wrist-bands shining from use, and his boots 
worn through on the stirrup side, he looked the rider of riders. 
He wore two guns and carried a Winchester. 

Jane greeted him with surprise and warmth, set meat and 
bread and drink before him; and called Lassiter out to see him. 
The men exchanged glances, and the meaning of Lassiter’s keen 
inquiry and Judkins’s bold reply, both unspoken, was not lost 
upon Jane. 

“Where’s your hoss.^” asked Lassiter, aloud. 

“Left him down the slope,” answered Judkins. “I footed 
it in a ways, an ’ slept last night in the sage. . I went to the place 
you told me you ’most always slept, but didn’t strike you.” 

“ I moved up some, near the spring, an ’ now I go there nights. ” 

“Judkins — the white herd.^” queried Jane, hurriedly. 

“Miss Withersteen, I make proud to say I’ve not lost a 
steer. Per a good while after thet stampede Lassiter milled we 
hed no trouble. Why, even the sage-dogs left us. But it’s 
begun agin — thet flashin’ of lights over ridge tips, an’ queer 
puffin’ of smoke, an’ then at night strange whistles an’ noises. 
But the herd’s acted magnificent. An’ my boys, say, Miss 


THE INVISIBLE HAND 165 

Withersteen, they’re only kids, but I ask no better riders. I got 
the laugh in the village fer takin ’ them out. They ’re a wild lot. 
an you know boys hev more nerve than grown men, because 
they don t know what danger is. I’m not denyin’ there’s 
danger. But they glory in it, an’ mebbe I like it myself— any- 
way, we’ll stick. We’re goin’ to drive the herd on the far side 
of the first break of Deception Pass. There’s a great round 
valley over there, an’ no ridges or piles of rocks to aid these 
stampeders. The rains are due. We’ll hev plenty of water fer 
a while. An’ we can hold thet herd from anybody except Old- 
rin’. I come in fer supplies. I’ll pack a couple of burros an’ 
drive out after dark to-night.” 

“Judkins, take what you want from the store-room. Lassiter 
will help you. I — I can’t thank you enough . . . but — wait.” 

Jane went to the room that had once been her father’s, and 
from a secret chamber in the thick stone wall she took a bag 
of gold, and, carrying it back to the court, she gave it to the 
rider. 

“There, Judkins, and understand that I regard it as little for 
your loyalty. Give what is fair to your boys, and keep the rest. 
Hide it. Perhaps that would be wisest.” 

“Oh . . . Miss Withersteen!” ejaculated the rider. “I 
couldn ’t earn so much in — ten years. It’s not right — I oughtn ’t 
take it.” 

“Judkins, you know I’m a rich woman. I tell you I’ve few 
faithful friends. I’ve fallen upon evil days. God only knows 
what will become of me and mine! So take the gold.” 

She smiled in understanding of his speechless gratitude, and 
left him with Lassiter. Presently she heard him speaking low 
at first, then in louder accents emphasized by the thumping of 
his rifle on the stones. “As infernal a job as even you, Lassiter, 
ever heerd of. ” 

“Why, son,” was Lassiter’s reply, “this breakin’ of Miss 


166 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

Withersteen may seem bad to you, but it ain’t bad — yet. Some 
of these wall-eyed fellers who look jest as if they was walkin 
in the shadow of Christ himself, right down the sunny road, now 
they can think of things an’ do things that are really hell-bent.” 

Jane covered her ears and ran to her own room, and there 
like a caged lioness she paced to and fro till the coming of little 
Fay reversed her dark thoughts. 

The following day, a warm and muggy one threatening rain, 
while Jane was resting in the court, a horseman clattered through 
the grove and up to the hitching-rack. He leaped off and ap- 
proached Jane with the manner of a man determined to execute 
a difficult mission, yet fearful of its reception. In the gaunt, 
wiry figure and the lean, brown face Jane recognized one of her 
Mormon riders, Blake. It was he of whom Judkins had long 
since spoken. Of all the riders ever in her employ Blake owed 
her the most, and as he stepped before her, removing his hat 
and making manly efforts to subdue his emotion, he showed 
that he remembered. 

“Miss Withersteen, mother’s dead,” he said. 

“Oh — ^Blake!” exclaimed Jane, and she could say no more. 

“She died free from pain in the end, and she’s buried — ^resting 
at last, thank God! ... I’ve come to ride for you again, if 
you’ll have me. Don’t think I mentioned mother to get your 
sympathy. When she was living and your riders quit, I had to 
also. I was afraid of what might be done — said to her. . . . 
Miss Withersteen, we can’t talk of — of what’s going on now — ” 

“Blake, do you know.^” 

“I know a great deal. You understand, my lips are shut. 
But without explanation or excuse I offer my services. I’m a 
Mormon — ^I hope a good one. But — there are some things! 
... It’s no use. Miss Withersteen, I can’t say any more — what 
I’d like to. But will you take me back.f^” 

“Blake! . . . You know what it means.f^” 


THE INVISIBLE HAND 167 

“I don’t care, I’m sick of — of — I’ll show you a Mormon 
who’ll be true to you!” 

“But Blake — how terribly you might suffer for that!” 

“Maybe. Aren’t you suffering now.?” 

“God knows indeed I am!” 

“Miss Withersteen, it’s a liberty on my part to speak so, 
but I know you pretty well — ^know you’ll never give in. I 
wouldn’t if I were you. And I — I must — something makes 
me tell you the worst is yet to come. That’s all. I absolutely 
can’t say more. Will you take me back — ^let me ride for you — 
show everybody what I mean.?” 

“Blake, it makes me happy to hear you. How my riders 
hurt me when they quit!” Jane felt the hot tears well to her 
eyes and splash down upon her hands. “I thought so much of 
them — tried so hard to be good to them. And not one was true. 
You’ve made it easy to forgive. Perhaps many of them really 
feel as you do, but dare not return to me. Still, Blake, I hesitate 
to take you back. Yet I want you so much. ” 

“Do it then. If you’re going to make your life a lesson to 
Mormon women, let me make mine a lesson to the men. Right 
is right. I believe in you, and here’s my life to prove it.” 

“You hint it may mean your life!” said Jane, breathless and 
low. 

“We won’t speak of that. I want to come back. I want 
to do what every rider aches in his secret heart to do for you. 
. . . Miss Withersteen, I hoped it’d not be necessary to tell you 
that my mother on her death-bed told me to have courage. She 
knew how the thing galled me — she told me to come back. . . . 
Will you take me.? ” 

“God bless you, Blake! Yes, I’ll take you back. And will 
you — will you accept gold from me?” 

“ Miss Withersteen ! ” 

“I just gave Judkins a bag of gold. I’ll give you one. If 


12 


168 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


you will not take it you must not come back. You might ride 
for me a few weeks — ^months — days till the storm breaks. Then 
you’d have nothing, and be in disgrace with your people. We’ll 
forearm you against poverty, and me against endless regret. 
I’ll give you gold which you can hide — till some future time.” 

“Well, if it pleases you,” replied Blake. “But you know I 
never thought of pay. Now, Miss Withersteen, one thing more. 
I want to see this man Lassiter. Is he here?” 

“Yes, but Blake — what — Need you see him? Why?” asked 
Jane, instantly worried. “I can speak to him — tell him about 
you.” 

“That won’t do. I want to — I’ve got to tell him myself. 
Where is he?” 

“Lassiter is with Mrs. Larkin. She is ill. I’ll call him,” 
answered Jane, and going to the door she softly called for the 
rider. A faint, musical jingle preceded his step — then his tall 
form crossed the threshold. 

“Lassiter, here’s Blake, an old rider of mine. He has come 
back to me, and he wishes to speak to you. ” 

Blake’s brown face turned exceedingly pale. 

“Yes, I had to speak to you,” he said swiftly. “My name’s 
Blake. I ’m a Mormon and a rider. Lately I quit Miss Wither- 
steen. I’ve come to beg her to take me back. Now I don’t 
know you, but I know — what you are. So I’ve this to say to 
your face. It would never occur to this woman to imagine — 
let alone suspect me to be a spy. She couldn’t think it might 
just be a low plot to come here and shoot you in the back. Jane 
Withersteen hasn’t that kind of a mind. . . . Well, I’ve not 
come for that. I want to help her — to pull a bridle along with 
Judkins and — and you. The thing is — do you believe me?” 

“I reckon I do,” replied Lassiter. How this slow, cool 
speech contrasted with Blake’s hot, impulsive words! “You 
might have saved some of your breath. See here, Blake, cinch 


THE INVISIBLE HAND 169 

this in your mind. Lassiter has met some square Mormons! 
An’ mebbe— ” 

‘‘Blake,” interrupted Jane, nervously anxious to terminate 
a colloquy that she perceived was an ordeal for him. “Go at 
once and fetch me a report of my horses.” 

“Miss Withersteen! . . . You mean the big drove — down in 
the sage-cleared fields?” 

“Of course,” replied Jane. “My horses are all there, except 
the blooded stock I keep here.” 

“ Haven ’t you heard — then? ” 

“Heard? No! What’s happened to them?” 

“They’re gone. Miss Withersteen, gone these ten days past. 
Dorn told me, and I rode down to see for myself.” 

“Lassiter — did you know?” asked Jane, whirling to him. 

“I reckon so. . . . But what was the use to tell you?” 

It was Lassiter turning away his face and Blake studying the 
stone flags at his feet that brought Jane to the understanding 
of what she betrayed. She strove desperately, but she could not 
rise immediately from such a blow. 

“My horses! My horses! What’s become of them?” 

“Dorn said the riders report another drive by Oldring. . . . 
And I trailed the horses miles down the slope toward Deception 
Pass.” 

“My red herd’s gone! My horses gone! The white herd 
will go next. I can stand that. But, if I lost Black Star and 
Night, it would be like parting with my own flesh and blood. 
Lassiter— Blake— am I in danger of losing my racers?” 

“A rustler — or — or anybody stealin’ bosses of yours would 
most of all want the blacks,” said Lassiter. His evasive reply 
was aflarmative enough. The other rider nodded gloomy ac- 
quiescence. 

“Oh! Oh!” Jane Withersteen choked, with violent utter- 


ance. 


170 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

‘‘Let me take charge of the blacks?” asked Blake. “One 
more rider won’t be any great help to Judkins. But I might 
hold Black Star and Night, if you put such store on their value. ” 

“Value! Blake, I love my racers. Besides, there’s another 
reason why I mustn’t lose them. You go to the stables. Go 
with Jerd every day when he runs the horses, and don ’t let them 
out of your sight. If you would please me — win my gratitude, 
guard my black racers.” 

When Blake had mounted and ridden out of the court Lassi- 
ter regarded Jane with the smile that was becoming rarer as the 
days sped by. 

“’Pears to me, as Blake says, you do put some store on them 
bosses. Now, I ain’t gainsay in’ that the Arabians are the 
handsomest bosses I ever seen. But Bells can beat Night, an’ 
run neck an’ neck with Black Star. ” 

“Lassiter, don’t tease me now, I’m miserable — sick. Bells is 
fast, but he can’t stay with the blacks, and you know it. Only 
Wrangle can do that.” 

“I’ll bet that big raw-boned brute can more’n show his 
heels to your black iacers. Jane, out there in the sage, on a long 
chase. Wrangle could kill your favorites. ” 

“No, no,” replied Jane, impatiently. “Lassiter, why do you 
say that so often? I know you’ve teased me at times, and I 
believe it’s only kindness. You’re always trying to keep my 
mind off worry. But you mean more by this repeated mention 
of my racers?” 

“I reckon so.” Lassiter paused, and for the thousandth 
time in her presence moved his black sombrero round and round, 
as if counting the silver pieces on the band. “Well, Jane, I’ve 
sort of read a little that’s passin’ in your mind.” 

“You think I might fly from my home — ^from Cottonwoods — 
from the Utah border? ” 

“I reckon. An’ if you ever do an’ get away with the blacks 


THE INVISIBLE HAND 171 

I wouldn’t like to see Wrangle left here on the sage. Wrangle 
could catch you. I know Venters had him. But you can never 
tell. Mebbe he hasn’t got him now. . . . Besides — things are 
happenin , an’ somethin’ of the same queer nature might have 
happened to Venters.” 

“God knows you’re right! . . . Poor Bern, how long he’s 
gone! In my trouble I’ve been forgetting him. But, Lassiter, 
I’ve little fear for him. I’ve heard my riders say he’s as keen as 
a wolf. ... As to your reading my thoughts — well, your sug- 
gestion makes an actual thought of what was only one of my 
dreams. I believe I dreamed of flying from this wild borderland, 
Lassiter. I’ve strange dreams. I’m not always practical, and 
thinking of my many duties, as you said once. For instance — 
if I dared — if I dared I’d ask you to saddle the blacks and ride 
away with me — and hide me” 

“Jane!” 

The rider’s sunburned face turned white. A few times 
Jane had seen Lassiter’s cool calm broken — ^when he had met 
little Fay, when he had learned how and why he had come to 
love both child and mistress, when he had stood beside Milly 
Erne’s grave. But one and all they could not be considered in 
the light of his present agitation. Not only did Lassiter turn 
white — not only did he grow tense, not only did he lose his cool- 
ness, but also he suddenly, violently, hungrily took her into his 
arms and crushed her to his breast. 

“ Lassiter!” cried Jane, trembling. It was an action for which 
she took sole blame. Instantly, as if dazed, weakened, he re- 
leased her. “Forgive me!” went on Jane. “I’m always 
forgetting your — your feelings. I thought of you as my faithful 
friend. I’m always making you out more than human . . . 
only, let me say — I meant that — about riding away. I’m 
wretched, sick of this — this — oh, something bitter and black 
grows on my heart!” 


172 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

“Jane, the hell — of it,” he replied, with deep intake of breath, 
“is you canH ride away. Mebbe realizin’ it accounts for my 
grabbin’ you — that way, as much as the crazy boy’s rapture 
your words gave me. I don’t understand myself. . . . But the 
hell of this game is — ^you can H ride away. ” 

“Lassiter! . . . What on earth do you mean.?^ I’m an 
absolutely free woman. ” 

“You ain’t absolutely anythin’ of the kind. ... I reckon 
I’ve got to tell you!” 

“Tell me all. It’s uncertainty that makes me a coward. 
It’s faith and hope — blind love, if you will, that makes me 
miserable. Every day I awake believing — still believing. The 
day grows, and with it doubts, fears, and that black bat hate that 
bites hotter and hotter into my heart. Then comes night — ^I 
pray — 1 pray for all, and for myself — I sleep — and I awake free 
once more, trustful, faithful, to believe — to hope! Then, Oh 
my God! I grow and live a thousand years till night again! . . . 
But, if you want to see me a woman, tell me why I can’t 
ride away — tell me what more I’m to lose — tell me the 
worst. ” 

“Jane, you’re watched. There’s no sinlge move of yours, 
except when you’re hid in your house, that ain’t seen by sharp 
eyes. The cottonwood grove’s full of creepin’, crawlin’ men. 
Like Indians in the grass! When you rode, which wasn’t often 
lately, the sage was full of sneakin’ men. At night they crawl 
under your windows, into the court, an’ I reckon into the house. 
Jane Withersteen, you know, never locked a door! This here 
grove’s a hummin’ bee-hive of mysterious happenin’s. Jane, 
it ain’t so much that these spies keep out of my way as me 
keepin’ out of theirs. They’re goin’ to try to kill me. That’s 
plain. But mebbe I’m as hard to shoot in the back as in the 
face. So far I’ve seen fit to watch only. This all means, Jane, 
that you’re a marked woman. You can’t get away — ^not now. 


173 


THE INVISIBLE HAND 

Mebbe later, when you’re broken, you might. But that’s 
sure doubtful. Jane, you’re to lose the cattle that’s left — your 
home an’ ranch — an’ Amber Spring. You can’t even hide a 
sack of gold! For it couldn’t be slipped out of the house, day 
or night, an’ hid or buried, let alone be rid off with. You may 
lose all. I’m tellin’ you, Jane, hopin’ to prepare you, if the 
worst does come. I told you once before about that strange 
power I’ve got to feel things.” 

“Lassiter, what can I do.?” 

“Nothin’, I reckon, except know what’s cornin’ an’ wait 
an’ be game. If you’d let me make a call on Tull, an’ a long- 
deferred call on — ” 

“Hush! . . . Hush!” she whispered. 

“Well, even that wouldn’t help you any in the end.” 

“What does it mean.? Oh, what does it mean? I am my 
father’s daughter — a Mormon, yet I can’t see! I’ve not failed 
in religion — in duty. For years I’ve given with a free and full 
heart. When my father died I was rich. If I’m still rich it’s 
because I couldn’t find enough ways to become poor. What 
am I, what are my possessions to set in motion such intensity 
of secret oppression?” 

“Jane, the mind behind it all is an empire builder.” 

“But, Lassiter, I would give freely — all 1 own to avert this — • 
this wretched thing. If I gave — that would leave me with faith 
still. Surely my — my churchmen think of my soul? If I lose 
my trust in them — ” 

“Child, be still!” said Lassiter, with a dark dignity that 
had in it something of pity. “You are a woman, fine an’ big 
an’ strong, an’ your heart matches your size. But in mind 
you ’re a child. I ’ll say a little more — then I ’m done. I ’ll never 
mention this again. Among many thousands of women you’re 
one who has bucked against your churchmen. They tried you 
out, an’ failed of persuasion, an’ finally of threats. You meet 


174 EIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

now the cold steel of a will as far from Christlike as the 
universe is wide. You’re to be broken. Your body’s to be 
held, given to some man, made, if possible, to bring children 
into the world. But your soul? . . . What do they care for 
your soul?” 


CHAPTER XIII 


SOLITUDE AND STORM 

I N his hidden valley Venters awakened from sleep, and his 
ears rang with innumerable melodies from full-throated 
mocking-birds, and his eyes opened wide upon the glorious 
golden shaft of sunlight shining through the great stone bridge. 
The circle of cliffs surrounding Surprise Valley lay shrouded in 
morning mist, a dim blue low down along the terraces, a creamy, 
moving cloud along the ramparts. The oak forest in the center 
was a plumed and tufted oval of gold. 

He saw Bess under the spruces. Upon her complete recovery 
of strength she always rose with the dawn. At the moment 
she was feeding the quail she had tamed. And she had begun 
to tame the mocking-birds. They fluttered among the branches 
overhead, and some left off their songs to flit down and shyly 
hop near the twittering quail. Little gray and white rabbits 
crouched in the grass now nibbling, now laying long ears flat and 
watching the dogs. 

Venters’s swift glance took in the brightening valley, and 
Bess and her pets, and Ring and Whitie. It swept over all to re- 
turn again and rest upon the girl. She had changed. To the dark 
trousers and blouse she had added moccasins of her own make, 
but she no longer resembled a boy. No eye could have failed to 
mark the rounded contours of a woman. The change had been 
to grace and beauty. A glint of warm gold gleamed from her 
hair, and a tint of red shone in the clear dark-brown of her cheeks. 


176 RIDEKS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

The haunting sweetness of her lips and eyes, that earlier had been 
illusive, a promise, had become a living fact. She fitted har- 
moniously into that wonderful setting; she was like Surprise 
Valley — wild and beautiful. 

Venters leaped out of his cave to begin the day. 

He had postponed his journey to Cottonwoods until after 
the passing of the summer rains. The rains were due soon. But 
until their arrival and the necessity for his trip to the village, he 
sequestered in a far corner of mind all thought of peril, of his 
past life, and almost that of the present. It was enough to live. 
He did not want to know what lay hidden in the dim and dis- 
tant future. Surprise Valley had enchanted him. In this home 
of the cliff-dwellers there was peace and quiet and solitude, and 
another thing, wondrous as the golden morning shaft of sunlight, 
that he dared not ponder over long enough to understand. 

The solitude he had hated when alone he had now come to 
love. He was assimilating something from this valley of gleams 
and shadows. From this strange girl he was assimilating more. 

The day at hand resembled many days gone before. As 
Venters had no tools with which to build, or to till the terraces, 
he remained idle. Beyond the cooking of the simple fare there 
were no tasks. And as there were no tasks, there was no system. 
He and Bess began one thing, to leave it; to begin another, to 
leave that; and then do nocking but lie under the spruces and 
watch the great cloud-sails majestically move along the ramparts, 
and dream and dream. The valley was a golden, sunlit world. 
It was silent. The sighing wind and the twittering quail and the 
singing birds, even the rare and seldom-occurring hollow crack of 
a sliding weathered stone, only thickened and deepened that 
insulated silence. 

Venters and Bess had vagrant minds. 

“Bess, did I tell you about my horse Wrangle.?^” inquired 
Venters. 


SOLITUDE AND STORM 177 

“A hundred times,” she replied. 

“Oh, have I’d forgotten. I want you to see him. He’ll 
carry us both. ” 

“I’d like to ride him. Can he run.^” 

“Run.f^ He’s a demon. Swiftest horse on the sage! I hope 
he’ll stay in that canon.” 

“He’ll stay.” 

They left camp to wander along the terraces, into the aspen 
ravines, under the gleaming walls. Ring and Whitie wandered 
in the fore, often turning, often trotting back, open-mouthed 
and solemn-eyed and happy. Venters lifted his gaze to the grand 
archway over the entrance to the valley, and Bess lifted hers to 
follow his, and both were silent. Sometimes the bridge held 
their attention for a long time. To-day a soaring eagle attracted 
them. 

“How he sails!” exclaimed Bess. “I wonder where his mate 
is?” 

“She’s at the nest. It’s on the bridge in a crack near the 
top. I see her often. She’s almost white.” 

They wandered on down the terrace, into the shady, sun- 
flecked forest. A brown bird fluttered crying from a bush. Bess 
peeped into the leaves. 

“Look! A nest and four little birds. They’re not afraid 
of us. See how they open their mouths. They’re hungry.” 

Rabbits rustled the dead brush and pattered away. The 
forest was full of a drowsy hum of insects. Little darts of purple, 
that were running quail, crossed the glades. And a plaintive, 
sweet peeping came from the coverts. Bess’s soft step disturbed 
a sleeping lizard that scampered away over the leaves. She gave 
chase and caught it, a slim creature of nameless color, but of 
exquisite beauty. 

“Jewel eyes,” she said. “It’s like a rabbit — afraid. We 
won’t eat you. There — ^go.” 


178 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

Murmuring water drew their steps down into a shallow, 
shaded ravine where a brown brook brawled softly over mossy 
stones. Multitudes of strange, gray frogs with white spots and 
black eyes lined the rocky bank and leaped only at close approach. 
Then Venters’s eye descried a very thin, very long green snake 
coiled round a sapling. They drew closer and closer till they 
could have touched it. The snake had no fear and watched 
them with scintillating eyes. 

“It’s pretty,” said Bess. “How tame! I thought snakes 
always ran. ” 

“No. Even the rabbits didn’t run here till the dogs chased 
them. ” 

On and on they wandered to the wild jumble of massed and 
broken fragments of cliff at the west end of the valley. The 
roar of the disappearing stream dinned in their ears. Into this 
maze of rocks they threaded a tortuous way, climbing, descending, 
halting to gather wild plums and great lavender lilies, and going 
on at the will of fancy. Idle and keen perceptions guided them 
equally. 

Oh, let us climb there!” cried Bess, pointing upward to a 
small space of terrace left green and shady between huge abut- 
ments of broken cliff. And they climbed to the nook and rested 
and looked out across the valley to the curling column of blue 
smoke from their camp-fire. But the cool shade and the rich 
grass and the fine view were not what they had climbed for. They 
could not have told, although whatever had drawn them was all- 
satisfying. Light, sure-footed as a mountain goat, Bess pattered 
down at Venters’s^ heels; and they went on, calling the dogs, 
eyes dreamy and wide, listening to the wind and the bees and the 
crickets and the birds. 

Part of the time Ring and Whitie led the way, then Venters, 
then Bess; and the direction was not- an object. They left the 
sun-streaked shade of the oaks, brushed the long grass of the 


SOLITUDE AND STORM 179 

meadows, entered the green and fragrant swaying willows, to 
stop, at length, under the huge old cottonwoods, where the 
beavers were busy. 

Here they rested and watched. A dam of brush and logs and 
mud and stones backed the stream into a little lake. The round, 
rough beaver-houses projected from the water. Like the rabbits 
the beaver had become shy. Gradually, however, as Venters 
and Bess knelt low, holding the dogs, the beaver emerged to 
swim with logs and gnaw at cottonwoods and pat mud walls with 
their paddle-like tails, and, glossy and shiny in the sun, to go on 
with their strange, persistent industry. They were the builders. 
The lake was a mud-hole, and the immediate environment a 
scarred and dead region, but it was a wonderful home of wonderful 
animals. 

“Look at that one — ^he puddles in the mud,” said Bess. “And 
there! See him dive! Hear them gnawing! I’d. think they’d 
break their teeth. How’s it they can stay out of the water and 
under the water.?” 

And she laughed. 

Then Venters and Bess wandered farther, and, perhaps not all 
unconsciously this time, wended their slow steps to the cave of 
the cliff-dwellers, where she liked best to go. 

The tangled thicket and the long slant of dust and little 
chips of weathered rock and the steep bench of stone and the 
worn steps all were arduous work for Bess in the climbing. But 
she gained the shelf, gasping, hot of cheek, glad of eye, with her 
hand in Venters’s. Here they rested. The beautiful valley 
glittered below with its millions of wind-turned leaves bright- 
faced in the sun, and the mighty bridge towered heavenward, 
crowned with blue sky. Bess, however, never rested for long. 
Soon she was exploring, and Venters followed; she dragged forth 
from corners and shelves a multitude of crudely fashioned and 
painted pieces of pottery, and he carried them. They peeped 


180 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


down into the dark holes of the kivas, and Bess gleefully dropped 
a stone and waited for the long-coming hollow sound to rise. 
They peeped into the little globular houses, like mud- wasp nests, 
and wondered if these had been store-places for grain or baby- 
cribs, or what; and they crawled into the larger houses and laughed 
when they bumped their heads on the low roofs, and they dug in 
the dust of the floors. And they brought from dust and darkness 
armloads of treasure which they carried to the light. Flints and 
stones and strange curved sticks and pottery they found; and 
twisted grass rope that crumbled in their hands, and bits of 
whitish stone which crushed to powder at a touch and seemed to 
vanish in the air. 

“That white stuff was bone,” said Venters, slowly. “Bones 
of a cliff-dweller.” 

“No!” exclaimed Bess. 

“Here’s another piece. Look! . . . Whew! dry, powdery 
smoke! That’s bone.” 

Then it was that Venters’s primitive, childlike mood, like 
a savage’s, seeing yet unthinking, gave way to the encroach- 
ment of civilized thought. The world had not been made for a 
single day’s play or fancy or idle watching. The world was old. 
Nowhere could be gotten a better idea of its age than in this 
gigantic silent tomb. The gray ashes in Venters’s hand had 
once been bone of a human being like himself. The pale gloom 
of the cave had shadowed people long ago. He saw that Bess 
had received the same shock — could not in moments such as 
this escape her feeling, living, thinking destiny. 

“Bern, people have lived here,” she said, with wide, thought- 
ful eyes. 

“Yes,” he replied. 

“How long ago.f^” 

“A thousand years and more.” 

“What were they?” 


SOLITUDE AND STORM 181 

Cliff-dwellers. Men who had enemies and made their 
homes high out of reach. ” 

“They had to fight?” 

“Yes.” 

“They fought for — what?” 

“For life. For their homes, food, children, parents — ^for 
their women!” 

“Has the world changed any in a thousand years?” 

“I don’t know — ^perhaps very little.” 

“Have men?” 

“I hope so — I think so.” 

“Things crowd into my mind,” she went on, and the wistful 
light in her eyes told Venters the truth of hen thoughts. “I’ve 
ridden the border of Utah. I’ve seen people — ^know how they 
live — ^but they must be few of all who are living. I had my books 
and I studied them. But all that doesn’t help me any more. 
I want to go out into the big world and see it. Yet I want to 
stay here more. What ’s to become of us? Are we cliff-dwellers? 
We’re alone here. I’m happy when I don’t think. These — 
these bones that fly into dust — they make me sick, and a little 
afraid. Did the people who lived here once have the same 
feelings as we have? What was the good of their living at all? 
They’re gone! What’s the meaning of it all — of us?” 

“Bess, you ask more than I can tell. It’s beyond me. Only 
there was laughter here once — and now there’s silence. There 
was life — and now there’s death. Men cut these little steps, 
made these arrow-heads and mealing-stones, plaited the ropes 
we found, and left their bones to crumble in our fingers. As far 
as time is concerned it might all have been yesterday. We’re 
here to-day. Maybe we’re higher in the scale of human beings 
— in intelligence. But who knows? We can’t be any higher 
in the things for which life is lived at all.” 

“What are they?” 


182 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

“Why — I suppose relationship, friendship — ^love.” 

“Love!’’ 

“Yes. Love of man for woman — ^love of woman for man. 
That’s the nature, the meaning, the best of life itself.” 

She said no more. Wistfulness of glance deepened into 
sadness. 

“Come, let us go,” said Venters. 

Action brightened her. Beside him, holding his hand, she 
slipped down the shelf, ran down the long, steep slant of sliding 
stones, out of the cloud of dust, and likewise out of the pale 
gloom. 

“ We beat the slide,” she cried. 

The miniature avalanche cracked and roared, and rattled 
itself into an inert mass at the base of the incline. Yellow dust 
like the gloom of the cave, but not so changeless, drifted away 
on the wind; the roar clapped in echo from the cliff, returned, 
went back, and came again to die in the hollowness. Down on 
the sunny terrace there was a different atmosphere. Ring and 
Whitie leaped around Bess. Once more she was smiling, gay, 
and thoughtless, with the dream-mood in the shadow of her eyes. 

“Bess, I haven’t seen that since last summer. Look!” said 
Venters, pointing to the scalloped edge of rolling purple clouds 
that peeped over the western wall. “We’re in for a storm.” 

“Oh, I hope not. I’m afraid of storms.” 

“Are you.^ Why.^^” 

“Have you ever been down in one of these walled-up pockets 
in a bad storm 

“No, now I think of it, I haven’t.” 

“Well, it’s terrible. Every summer I get scared to death, 
and hide somewhere in the dark. Storms up on the sage are 
bad, but nothing to what they are down here in the canons. 
And in this little valley — why echoes can rap back and forth so 
quick they’ll split our ears.” 


SOLITUDE AND STORM 


183 


“We’re perfectly safe here, Bess.” 

“I know. But that hasn’t anything to do with it. The truth 
is I’m afraid of lightning and thunder, and thunderclaps hurt 
my head. If we have a bad storm, will you stay close by me.'^” 

“Yes.” 

When they got back to camp the afternoon was closing, and 
it was exceedingly sultry. Not a breath of air stirred the aspen 
leaves, and when these did not quiver the air was indeed still. 
The dark-purple clouds moved almost imperceptibly out of the 
west. 

“What have we for supper.^” asked Bess. 

“Rabbit.” 

“Bern, can’t you think of another new way to cook rabbit?” 
went on Bess, with earnestness. 

“What do you think I am — a magician?” retorted Venters. 

“I wouldn’t dare tell you. But, Bern, do you want me to 
turn into a rabbit?” 

There was a dark-blue, merry flashing of eyes, and a parting 
of lips; then she laughed. In that moment she was naive and 
wholesome. 

“Rabbit seems to agree with you,” replied Venters. “You 
are well and strong — and growing very pretty.” 

Anything in the nature of compliment he had never before 
said to her, and just now he responded to a sudden curiosity to 
see its effect. Bess stared as if she had not heard aright, slowly 
blushed, and completely lost her poise in happy confusion. 

“I’d better go right away,” he continued, “and fetch suppHes 
from Cottonwoods.” 

A startlingly swift change in the nature of her agitation made 
him reproach himself for his abruptness. 

“No, no, don’t go!” she said. “I didn’t mean— that about 
the rabbit. I — ^I was only trying to be — ^funny. Don’t leave 

me all alone. ” 

13 


184 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

‘‘Bess, I must go sometime.” 

“Wait then. Wait till after the storms.” 

The purple cloud-bank darkened the lower edge of the setting 
sun, crept up and up, obscuring its fiery-red heart, and finally 
passed over the last ruddy crescent of its upper rim. 

The intense dead silence awakened to a long, low, rumbling 
roll of thunder. 

“Oh!” cried Bess, nervously. 

‘WeVe had big black clouds before this without rain,” said 
Venters. “But there’s no doubt about that thunder. The 
storms are coming. I’m glad. Every rider on the sage will 
hear that thunder with glad ears.” 

Venters and Bess finished their simple meal and the few tasks 
around the camp, then faced the open terrace, the valley, and 
the west, to watch and await the approaching storm. 

It required keen vision to see any movement whatever in the 
purple clouds. By infinitesimal degrees the dark cloud-line 
merged upward into the golden-red haze of the afterglow of sun- 
set. A shadow lengthened from under the western wall across 
the valley. As straight and rigid as steel rose the delicate spear- 
pointed silver spruces; the aspen leaves, by nature pendent and 
quivering, hung limp and heavy; no slender blade of grass moved. 
A gentle plashing of water came from the ravine. Then again 
from out of the west sounded the low, dull, and rumbling roll of 
thunder. 

A wave, a ripple of light, a trembling and turning of the aspen 
leaves, like the approach of a breeze on the water, crossed the 
valley from the west; and the lull and the deadly stillness and 
the sultry air passed away on a cool wind. 

The night bird of the canon, with his clear and melancholy 
notes, announced the twilight. And from all along the cliffs 
rose the faint murmur and moan and mourn of the wind singing 
in the caves. The bank of clouds now swept hugely out of the 



VENTERS AND BESS FINISHED THEIR SIMPLE MEAL THEN FACED THE OPEN TERRACE, TO 

WATCH AND AWAIT THE APPROACHING STORM 


1 





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C» f / -f 

I f-.i * . 


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SOLITUDE AND STORM 


185 


western sky. Its front was purple and black with gray between, 
a bulging, mushrooming, vast thing instinct with storm. It 
had a dark, angry, threatening aspect. As if all the power of 
the winds were pushing and piling behind, it rolled ponderously 
across the sky. A red flare burned out instantaneously, flashed 
from west to east, and died. Then from the deepest black of 
the purple cloud burst a boom. It was like the bowling of a 
huge boulder along the crags and ramparts, and seemed to roll 
on and fall into the valley to bound and bang and boom from 
cliff to cliff. 

“Oh!” cried Bess, with her hands over her ears. “What 
did I tell you.?” 

“Why, Bess, be reasonable,” said Venters. 

“I’m a coward.” 

“Not quite that, I hope. It’s strange you’re afraid. I love 
a storm. ” 

“I tell you a storm down in these canons is an awful thing. 
I know Oldring hated storms. His men were afraid of them. 
There was one who went deaf in a bad storm, and never could 
hear again.” 

“Maybe I’ve lots to learn, Bess. I’ll lose my guess if this 
storm isn’t bad enough. We’re going to have heavy wind first, 
then lightning and thunder, then the rain. Let’s stay out as 
long as we can. ” 

The tips of the cottonwoods and the oaks waved to the east, 
and the rings of aspens along the terraces twinkled their myriad 
of bright faces in fleet and glancing gleam. A low roar rose from 
the leaves of the forest, and the spruces swished in the rising 
wind. It came in gusts, with light breezes between. As it in- 
creased in strength the lulls shortened in length till there was a 
strong and steady blow all the time, and violent puffs at inter- 
vals, and sudden whirling currents. The clouds spread over 
the valley, rolling swiftly and low- and twilight faded into a 


186 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


sweeping darkness. Then the singing of the wind in the caves 
drowned the swift roar of rustling leaves; then the song swelled 
to a mourning, moaning wail; then with the gathering power of 
the wind the wail changed to a shriek. Steadily the wind 
strengthened and constantly the strange sound changed. 

The last bit of blue sky yielded to the onsweep of clouds. 
Like angry surf the pale gleams of gray, amid the purple of that 
scudding front, swept beyond the eastern rampart of the valley. 
The purple deepened to black. Broad sheets of lightning flared 
over the western wall. There were not yet any ropes or zigzag 
streaks darting down through the gathering darkness. The storm 
center was still beyond Surprise Valley. 

“Listen! . . . Listen!” cried Bess, with her lips close to 
Venters’s ear. “You ’ll hear Oldring’s knell ! ” 

“What’s that.?” 

“Oldring’s knell. When the wind blows a gale in the caves 
it makes what the rustlers call Oldring’s knell. They believe it 
bodes his death. I think he believes so too. It’s not like any 
sound on earth. ... It’s beginning. Listen!” 

The gale swooped down with a hollow, unearthly howl. It 
yelled and pealed and shrilled and shrieked. It was made up of 
a thousand piercing cries. It was a rising and a moving sound. 
Beginning at the western break of the valley it rushed along each 
gigantic cliff, whistling into the oaves and cracks, to mount in 
power, to bellow a blast through the great stone bridge. Gone, 
as into an engulfing roar of surging waters, it seemed to shoot 
back and begin all over again. 

It was only wind, thought Venters. Here sped and shrieked 
the sculptor that carved out the wonderful caves in the cliffs. 
It was only a gale, but as Venters listened, as his ears became 
accustomed to the fury and strife, out of it all or through it or 
above it, pealed low and perfectly clear and persistently uniform 
a strange sound that had no counterpart in all the sounds of 


SOLITUDE AND STORM 187 

the elements. It was not of earth or of life. It was the grief 
and agony of the gale. A knell of all upon which it blew! 

Black night enfolded the valley. Venters could not see his 
companion, and knew of her presence only through the tightening 
hold of her hand on his arm. He felt the dogs huddle closer to 
him. Suddenly the dense, black vault overhead split asunder 
to a blue-white, dazzling streak of lightning. The whole valley 
lay vividly clear and luminously bright in his sight. Upreared, 
vast and magnificent, the stone bridge glimmered like some grand 
god of storm in the lightnmg’s fire. Then all flashed black 
again — blacker than pitch — a thick, impenetrable coal-blackness. 
And there came a ripping, crashing report. Instantly an echo 
resounded with clappmg crash. The initial report was nothing 
to the echo. It was a terrible, living, reverberating, detonating 
crash. The wall threw the sound across, and could have made 
no greater roar if it had slipped in avalanche. From cliff to 
cliff the echo went in crashing retort and banged in lessening 
power, and boomed in thinner volume, and clapped weaker 
and weaker till a final clap could not reach across to waiting 
cliff. 

In the pitchy darkness Venters led Bess, and, groping his 
way, by feel of hand found the entrance to her cave and lifted 
her up. On the instant a blinding flash of lightning illumined 
the cave and all about him. He saw Bess’s face white now with 
dark, frightened eyes. He saw the dogs leap up, and he followed 
suit. The golden glare vanished; all was black; then came the 
splitting crack and the infernal din of echoes. 

Bess shrank closer to him and closer, found his hands, and 
pressed them tightly over her ears, and dropped her face upon 
his shoulder, and hid her eyes. 

Then the storm burst with a succession of ropes and streaks 
and shafts of lightning, playing continuously, filling the valley 
with a broken radiance; and the cracking shots followed each 


188 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

other swiftly till the echoes blended in one fearful, deafening 
crash. 

Venters looked out upon the beautiful valley — beautiful now 
as never before — mystic in its transparent, luminous gloom, 
weird in the quivering, golden haze of lightning. The dark 
spruces were tipped with glimmering lights; the aspens bent low 
in the winds, as waves in a tempest at sea; the forest of oaks 
tossed wildly and shone with gleams of fire. Across the valley 
the hugh cavern of the cliff-dwellers yawned in the glare, every 
little black window as clear as at noonday; but the night and the 
storm added to their tragedy. Flung arching to the black 
clouds, the great stone bridge seemed to bear the brunt of the 
storm. It caught the full fury of the rushing wind. It lifted 
its noble crown to meet the lightnings. Venters thought of the 
eagles and their lofty nest in a niche under the arch. A driving 
pall of rain, black as the clouds, came sweeping on to obscure 
the bridge and the gleaming walls and the shining valley. The 
lightning played incessantly, streaking down through opaque 
darkness of rain. The roar of the wind, with its strange knell 
and the recrashing echoes, mingled with the roar of the flooding 
rain, and all seemingly were deadened and drowned in a world 
of sound. 

In the dimming pale light Venters looked down upon the girl. 
She had sunk into his arms, upon his breast, burying her face. 
She clung to him. He felt the softness of her, and the warmth, 
and the quick heave of her breast. He saw the dark, slender, 
graceful outline of her form. A woman lay in his arms! And 
he held her closer. He who had been alone in the sad, silent 
watches of the night was not now and never must be again alone. 
He who had yearned for the touch of a hand fek the long tremble 
and the heart-beat of a woman. By what strange chance had 
she come to love him! By what change — by what marvel had 
she grown into a treasure! 


SOLITUDE AND STORM 


189 


No more did he listen to the rush and roar of the thunder- 
storm. For with the touch of clinging hands and the throbbing 
bosom he grew conscious of an inward storm — the tingling of 
new chords of thought, strange music of unheard, joyous bells, 
sad dreams dawning to wakeful delight, dissolving doubt, re- 
surging hope, force, fire, and freedom, unutterable sweetness of 
desire. A storm in his breast — a storm of real love. 


CHAPTER XIV 


WEST WIND 

W HEN the storm abated Venters sought his own cave, 
and late in the night, as his blood cooled and the stir 
and throb and thrill subsided, he fell asleep. 

With the breaking of dawn his eyes unclosed. The valley 
lay drenched and bathed, a burnished oval of glittering green. 
The rain- washed walls glistened in the morning light. Water- 
falls of many forms poured over the rims. One, a broad, lacy 
sheet, thin as smoke, slid over the western notch and struck a 
ledge in its downward fall, to bound into broader leap, to burst 
far below into white and gold and rosy mist. 

Venters prepared for the day, knowing himself a different 
man. 

“It’s a glorious morning,” said Bess, in greeting. 

“Yes. After the storm the west wind,” he replied. 

“Last night was I — very much of a baby?” she asked, watch- 
ing him. 

“Pretty much.” 

“Oh, I couldn’t help it!” 

“I’m glad you were afraid.” 

“Why?” she asked, in slow surprise. 

“I’ll tell you some day,” he answered, soberly. Then 
around the camp-fire and through the morning meal he was 
silent; afterward he strolled thoughtfully off alone along the 
terrace. He climbed a great yellow rock raising its crest among 


WEST WIND 


191 

the spruces, and there he sat down to face the valley and the 
west. 

‘T love her!” 

Aloud he spoke — unburdened his heart — confessed his secret. 
For an instant the golden valley swam before his eyes, and the 
walls waved, and all about him whirled with tumult within. 

‘T love her! ... I understand now.” 

Reviving memory of Jane Withersteen and thought of the 
complications of the present amazed him with proof of how 
far he had drifted from his old life. He discovered that he 
hated to take up the broken threads, to delve into dark problems 
and difficulties. In this beautiful valley he had been living a 
beautiful dream. Tranquillity had come to him, and the joy 
of solitude, and interest in all the wild creatures and crannies of 
this incomparable valley — and love. Under the shadow of the 
great stone bridge God had revealed Himself to Venters. 

“The world seems very far away,” he muttered, “but it’s 
there — and I’m not yet done with it. Perhaps I never shall 
be. . . . Only — how glorious it would be to live here always and 
never think again!” 

Whereupon the resurging reality of the present, as if in irony 
of his wish, steeped him instantly in contending thought. Out 
of it all he presently evolved these things : he must go to Cotton- 
woods; he must bring supplies back to Surprise Valley; he must 
cultivate the soil and raise corn and stock, and, most imperative 
of all, he must decide the future of the girl who loved him and 
whom he loved. The first of these things required tremendous 
effort; the last one, concerning Bess, seemed simply and naturally 
easy of accomplishment. He would marry her. Suddenly, as 
from roots of poisonous fire, flamed up the forgotten truth con- 
cerning her. It seemed to wither and shrivel up all his joy 
on its hot, tearing way to his heart. She had been Oldring’s 
Masked Rider. To Venters’s question, “What were you to 


192 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

Oldring?” she had answered with scarlet shame and drooping 
head. 

“What do I care who she is or what she was!” he cried, 
passionately. And he knew it was not his old self speaking. 
It was this softer, gentler man who had awakened to new thoughts 
in the quiet valley. Tenderness, masterful in him now, matched 
the absence of joy and blunted the knife-edge of entering jealousy. 
Strong and passionate effort of will, surprismg to him, held back 
the poison from piercing his soul. 

“Wait! . . . Wait!” he cried, as if calling. His hand pressed 
his breast, and he might have called to the pang there. “Wait! 
It’s all so strange — so wonderful. Anything can happen. Who 
am I to judge her.? I’ll glory in my love for her. But I can’t 
tell it — can’t give up to it.” 

Certainly he could not then decide her future. Marrying 
her was impossible in Surprise Valley and in any village south 
of Sterling. Even without the mask she had once worn she 
would easily have been recognized as Oldring’s Rider. No man 
who had ever seen her would forget her, regardless of his igno- 
rance as to her sex. Then more poignant than all other argument 
was the fact that he did not want to take her away from Sur- 
prise Valley. He resisted all thought of that. He had brought 
her to the most beautiful and wildest place of the uplands; he 
had saved her, nursed her back to strength, watched her bloom 
as one of the valley lilies; he knew her life there to be pure and 
sweet — she belonged to him, and he loved her. Still these were 
not all the reasons why he did not want to take her away. Where 
could they go.? He feared the rustlers — he feared the riders — 
he feared the Mormons. And if he should ever succeed in getting 
Bess safely away from these immediate perils he feared the sharp 
eyes of women and their tongues, the big outside world with its 
problems of existence. He must wait to decide her future, which, 
after all, was deciding his own. But between her future and his 


WEST WIND 


193 


something hung impending. Like Balancing Bock, which waited 
darkly over the steep gorge ready to close forever the outlet to 
Deception Pass, that nameless thing, as certain yet intangible as 
fate, must fall and close forever all doubts and fears of the future. 

‘T’ve dreamed,” muttered Venters, as he rose. “Well, why 
not? ... To dream is happiness! But let me just once see 
this clearly, wholly; then I can go on dreaming till the thing falls. 
I’ve got to tell Jane Withersteen. I’ve dangerous trips to take. 
I’ve work here to make comfort for this girl. She’s mine. I’ll 
fight to keep her safe from that old life. I’ve already seen her 
forget it. I love her. And if a beast ever rises in me. I’ll burn 
my hand off before I lay it on her with shameful intent. And, 
by God! sooner or later I’ll kill the man who hid her and kept 
her in Deception Pass!” 

As he spoke the west wind softly blew in his face. It seemed 
to soothe his passion. That west wind was fresh, cool, fragrant, 
and it carried a sweet, strange burden of far-off things — tidings 
of life in other climes, of sunshine asleep on other walls — of 
other places where reigned peace. It carried, too, sad truth of 
human hearts and mystery — of promise and hope unquenchable. 
Surprise Valley was only a little niche in the wide world whence 
blew that burdened wind. Bess was only one of millions at the 
mercy of unknown motive in nature and life. Content had come 
to Venters in the valley; happiness had breathed in the slow, 
warm air; love as bright as light had hovered over the walls 
and descended to him; and now on the west wind came a whisper 
of the eternal triumph of faith over doubt. 

“How much better I am for what has come to me!” he ex- 
claimed. “I’ll let the future take care of itself. Whatever 
falls I’ll be ready.” 

Venters retraced his steps along the terrace back to camp, 
and found Bess in the old familiar seat, waiting and watching 
for his return. 


194 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

‘I went off by myself to think a little,” he explained. 

“You never looked that way before. What— what is it? 
Won’t you tell me.?” 

“Well, Bess, the fact is I’ve been dreaming a lot. This 
valley makes a fellow dream. So I forced myself to think. 
We can’t live this way much longer. Soon I’ll simply have to 
go to Cottonwoods. We need a whole pack-train of supplies. 
I can get — ” 

“Can you go safely.?” she interrupted. 

“Why, I’m sure of it. I’ll ride through the pass at night. 
I haven’t any fear that Wrangle isn’t where I left him. And 
once on him — Bess, just wait till you see that horse!” 

“Oh! I want to see him — to ride him. But — but, Bern, 
this is what troubles me,” she said, “Will— will you come 
back?” 

“Give me four days. If I’m not back in four days you’ll 
know I’m dead. For that only shall keep me.” 

“Oh!” 

“Bess, I’ll come back. There’s danger — I wouldn’t lie to 
you but I can take care of myself.” 

“Bern, I ’m sure — oh, I ’m sure of it ! All my life I ’ ve watched 
hunted men. I can tell what’s in them. And I believe you can 
ride and shoot and see with any rider of the sage. It’s not— 
not that I — fear. ” 

“Well, what is it, then?” 

“Why— why— why should you come back at all?” 

“I couldn’t leave you here alone.” 

“You might change your mind when you get to the village— 
among old friends — ” 

“I won’t change my mind. As for old friends—” He 
uttered a short, expressive laugh. 

“Then— there— there must be a— a woman!” Dark red 
mantled the clear tan of temple and cheek and neck. Her 


WEST WIND 


195 


eyes were eyes of sliame, upheld a long moment by intense, 
straining search for the verification of her fear. Suddenly they 
drooped, her head fell to her knees, her hands flew to her hot 
cheeks. 

“Bess — look here,” said Venters, with a sharpness due to 
the violence with which he checked his quick, surging emotion. 

As if compelled against her will — answering to an irresistible 
voice — ^Bess raised her head, looked at him with sad, dark eyes, 
and tried to whisper with tremulous lips. 

“There’s no woman,” went on Venters, deliberately holding 
her glance with his. “Nothing on earth, barring the chances 
of life, can keep me away. ” 

Her face flashed and flushed with the glow of a leaping joy; 
but like the vanishing of a gleam it disappeared to leave her as 
he had never beheld her. 

“I am nothing — I am lost — I am nameless!” 

“Do you want me to come back.?^” he asked, with sudden 
stern coldness. “ Maybe you want to go back to Oldring ! ” 

That brought her erect, trembling and ashy pale, with dark, 
proud eyes and mute lips refuting his insinuation. 

“Bess, I beg your pardon. I shouldn’t have said that. But 
you angered me. I intend to work — to make a home for you 
here — to be a — a brother to you as long as ever you need me. 
And you must forget what you are — were — I mean, and be happy. 
When you remember that old life you are bitter, and it hurts 
me.” 

“I was happy — I shall be very happy. Oh, you’re so good 
that — that it kills me! If I think, I can’t believe it. I grow 
sick with wondering why. I ’m only a — let me say it — only a lost, 
nameless — girl of the rustlers. Oldring' s Girl, they called me. 
That you should save me — be so good and kind — want to make 
me happy — why, it’s beyond belief. No wonder I’m wretched 
at the thought of your leaving me. But I’ll be wretched and 


196 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

bitter no more. I promise you. If only I could repay you even 
a little—” 

“You’ve repaid me a hundredfold. Will you believe me.^” 

“Believe you! I couldn ’t do else. ” 

“Then listen! . . . Saving you, I saved myself. Living 
here in this valley with you, I ’ve found myself. I ’ ve learned to 
think while I was dreaming. I never troubled myself about God. 
But God, or some wonderful spirit, has whispered to me here. 
I absolutely deny the truth of what you say about yourself. 
I can ’t explain it. There are things too deep to tell. Whatever 
the terrible wrongs you’ve suffered, God holds you blameless. 
I see that — feel that in you every moment you are near me. 
I’ve a mother and a sister ’way back in Illinois. If I could I’d 
take you to them — to-morrow.” 

“7/ it were true! Oh, I might — I might lift my head!” she 
cried. 

“Lift it then — you child. For I swear it’s true.” 

She did lift her head with the singular wild grace always a 
part of her actions, with that old unconscious intimation of inno- 
cence which always tortured Venters; but now with something 
more — a spirit rising from the depths that linked itself to his 
brave words. 

“I’ve been thinking — too,” she cried, with quivering smile 
and swelling breast. “I’ve discovered myself — ^too. I’m young 
— I’m alive — I’m so full — oh! I’m a woman!” 

“Bess, I believe I can claim credit of that last discovery — 
before you,” Venters said, and laughed. 

“Oh, there’s more — there’s something I must tell you.” 

“Tell it then.” 

“When will you go to Cottonwoods?” 

“As soon as the storms are past, or the worst of them.” 

“I’ll tell you before you go. I can’t now. I don’t know 
how I shall then. But it must be told. I ’d never let you leave 


WEST WIND 197 

me without knowing. For in spite of what you say there’s a 
chance you mightn’t come back.” 

Day after day the west wind blew across the valley. Day 
after day the clouds clustered gray and purple and black. The 
cliffs sang and the caves rang with Oldring’s knell, and the 
lightning flashed, the thunder rolled, the echoes crashed and 
crashed, and the rains flooded the valley. Wild flowers sprang 
up everywhere, swaying with the lengthening grass on the terraces, 
smiling wanly from shady nooks, peeping wondrously from year- 
dry crevices of the walls. The valley bloomed into a paradise. 
Every single moment, from the breaking of the gold bar through 
the bridge at dawn on to the reddening of rays over the western 
wall, was one of colorful change. The valley swam in thick, 
transparent haze, golden at dawn, warm and white at noon, 
purple in the twilight. At the end of every storm a rainbow 
curved down into the leaf-bright forest to shine and fade and leave 
lingeringly some faint essence of its rosy iris in the air. 

Venters walked with Bess, once more in a dream, and watched 
the lights change on the walls, and faced the wind from out of 
the west. 

Always it brought softly to him strange, sweet tidings of 
far-off things. It blew from a place that was old and whispered 
of youth. It blew down the grooves of time. It brought a 
story of the passing hours. It breathed low of fighting men and 
praying women. It sang clearly the song of love. That ever 
was the burden of its tidings — youth in the shady woods, waders 
through the wet meadows, boy and girl at the hedgerow stile, 
bathers in the booming surf, sweet, idle hours on grassy, windy 
hills, long strolls down moonlit lanes — everywhere in far-off 
lands, fingers locked and bursting hearts and longing lips — from 
all the world tidings of unquenchable love. 

Often, in these hours of dreams, he watched the girl, and 
asked himself of what was she dreaming For the changing light 


198 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

of the valley reflected its gleam and its color and its meaning in 
the changing light of her eyes. He saw in them infinitely more 
than he saw in his dreams. He saw thought and soul and nature 
— strong vision of life. All tidings the west wind blew from 
distance and age he found deep in those dark-blue depths, and 
found them mysteries solved. Under their wistful shadow he 
softened, and in the softening felt himself grow a sadder, a wiser, 
and a better man. 

While the west wind blew its tidings, filling his heart full, 
teaching him a man’s part, the days passed, the purple clouds 
changed to white, and the storms were over for that summer. 

“I must go now,” he said. 

“When?” she asked. 

“At once — to-night.” 

“I’m glad the time has come. It dragged at me. Go — 
for you’ll come back the sooner.” 

Late in the afternoon, as the ruddy sun split its last flame 
in the ragged notch of the western wall, Bess walked with Venters 
along the eastern terrace, up the long, weathered slope, under 
the great stone bridge. They entered the narrow gorge to climb 
around the fence long before built there by Venters. Farther 
than this she had never been. Twilight had already fallen in 
the gorge. It brightened to waning shadow in the wider ascent. 
He showed her Balancing Rock, of which he had often told her, 
and explained its sinister leaning over the outlet. Shuddering, 
she looked down the long, pale incline with its closed-in, toppling 
walls. 

“What an awful trail! Did you can*y me up here?” 

“I did, surely,” replied he. 

“It frightens me, somehow. Yet I never was afraid of trails. 
I’d ride anywhere a horse could go, and climb w’here he couldn’t. 
But there’s something fearful here. I feel as — as if the place was 
watching me.” 


WEST WIND 


199 


“Look at this rock. It’s balanced here — balanced perfectly. 
You know I told you the cliff-dwellers cut the rock, and why. 
But they’re gone and the rock waits. Can’t you see — ^feel how 
it waits here? I moved it once, and I’ll never dare again. A 
strong heave would start it. Then it would fall and bang, and 
smash that crag, and jar the walls, and close forever the outlet 
to Deception Pass!” 

“Ah! . . . When you come back I’ll steal up here, and push 
and push with all my might to roll the rock and close forever 
the outlet to the pass!” She said it lightly, but in the under- 
current of her voice was a heavier note, a ring deeper than any 
ever given mere play of words. 

“Bess! . . . You can’t dare me! Wait till I come back 
with supplies — then roll the stone.” 

<< X — was — in — fun. ” Her voice now throbbed low. “Always 
you must be free to go when you will. Go now . . . this place 
presses on me — stifles me.” 

“I’m going — but you had something to tell me?” 

“Yes. . . . Will you — comeback?” 

“I’ll come if I live.” 

“But — ^but you mightn’t come?” 

“That’s possible, of course. It’ll take a good deal to kill 
me. A man couldn’t have a faster horse or keener dog. And, 
Bess, I’ve guns, and I’ll use them if I’m pushed. But don’t 
worry. ” 

“I’ve faith in you. I’ll not worry imtil after four days. 
Only — because you mighn’t come — I must tell you—’ 

She lost her voice. Her pale face, her great, glowing, earnest 
eyes, seemed to stand alone out of the gloom of the gorge. The 
dog whined, breaking the silence. 

“I must tell you— because you mightn’t come back,” she 
whispered. “You must know what— what I think of your 
goodness— of you. Always I’ve been tongue-tied. I seemed 
14 


200 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


not to be grateful. It was deep in my heart. Even now — 
if I were other than I am — I couldn’t tell you. But I’m nothing 
— only a rustler’s girl — ^nameless — infamous. You’ve saved 
me — and I’m — ^I’m yours to do with as you like . . . with all 
my heart and soul — I love you!” 


CHAPTER XV 


SHADOWS ON THE SAGE-SLOPE 


I N the cloudy, threatening, waning summer days shadows 
lengthened down the sage -slope, and Jane Withersteen 
likened them to the shadows gathering and closing in around 
her life. 

Mrs. Larkin died, and little Fay was left an orphan with no 
known relative. Jane’s love redoubled. It was the saving 
brightness of a darkening hour. Fay turned now to Jane in 
childish worship. And Jane at last found full expression for the 
mother-longing in her heart. Upon Lassiter, too, Mrs. Larkin’s 
death had some subtle reaction. Before, he had often, without 
explanation, advised Jane to send Fay back to any Gentile 
family that would take her in. Passionately and reproachfully 
and wonderingly Jane had refused even to entertain such an 
idea. And now Lassiter never advised it again, grew sadder 
and quieter in his contemplation of the child, and infinitely more 
gentle and loving. Sometimes Jane had a cold, inexplicable sen- 
sation of dread when she saw Lassiter watching Fay. What 
did the rider see in the future Why did he, day by day, grow 
more silent, calmer, cooler, yet sadder in prophetic assurance of 
something to be? 

No doubt, Jane thought, the rider, in his almost superhuman 
power of foresight, saw behind the horizon the dark, lengthening 
shadows that were soon to crowd and gloom over him and her 
and little Fay. Jane Withersteen awaited the long-deferred 


202 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


breaking of the storm with a courage and embittered calm that 
had come to her in her extremity. Hope had not died. Doubt 
and fear, subservient to her will, no longer gave her sleepless 
nights and tortured days. Love remained. All that she had 
loved she now loved the more. She seemed to feel that she was 
defiantly flinging the wealth of her love in the face of misfortune 
and of hate. No day passed but she prayed for all — and most 
fervently for her enemies. It troubled her that she had lost, or 
had never gained, the whole control of her mind. In some 
measure reason and wisdom and decision were locked in a cham- 
ber of her brain, awaiting a key. Power to think of some things 
was taken from her. Meanwhile, abiding a day of judgment, 
she fought ceaselessly to deny the bitter drops in her cup, to tear 
back the slow, the intangibly slow growth of a hot, corrosive 
lichen eating into her heart. 

On the morning of August 10th, Jane, while waiting in the 
court for Lassiter, heard a clear, ringing report of a rifle. It 
came from the grove, somewhere toward the corrals. Jane 
glanced out in alarm. The day was dull, windless, soundless. 
The leaves of the cottonwoods drooped, as if they had foretold 
the doom of Withersteen House, and were now ready to die and 
drop and decay. Never had J ane seen such shade. She pondered 
on the meaning of the report. Revolver shots had of late cracked 
from different parts of the grove — spies taking snap-shots at 
Lassiter from a cowardly distance! But a rifle report meant 
more. Riders seldom used rifles. Judkins and Venters were 
the exceptions she called to mind. Had the men who hounded 
her, hidden in her grove, taken to the rifle to rid her of Lassiter, 
her last friend It was probable — it was likely. And she did 
not share his cool assumption that his death would never come 
at the hands of a Mormon. Long had she expected it. His 
constancy to her, his singular reluctance to use the fatal skill 
for which he was famed — both now plain to all Mormons — laid 


203 


SHADOWS ON THE SAGE-SLOPE 

him open to inevitable assassination. Yet what charm against 
ambush and aim and enemy he seemed to bear about him! No, 
Jane reflected, it was not charm; only a wonderful training of 
eye and ear, and sense of impending peril. Nevertheless that 
could not forever avail against secret attack. 

That moment a rustling of leaves attracted her attention; 
then the familiar clinking accompaniment of a slow, soft, measured 
step, and Lassiter walked into the court. 

“Jane, there’s a fellow out there with a long gun,” he said, 
and removing his sombrero showed his head bound in a bloody 
scarf. 

“I heard the shot; I knew it was meant for you. Let me see 
— you can’t be badly injured.^” 

“I reckon not. But mebbe it wasn’t a close call! ... I’ll 
sit here in this corner where nobody can see me from the grove.” 
He untied the scarf and removed it to show a long, bleeding 
furrow above his left temple. 

“It’s only a cut,” said Jane. “But how it bleeds! Hold 
your scarf over it just a moment till I come back.” 

She ran into the house and returned with bandages; and while 
she bathed and dressed the wound Lassiter talked. 

“That fellow had a good chance to get me. But he must 
have flinched when he pulled the trigger. As I dodged down I 
saw him run through the trees. He had a rifle. I’ve been ex- 
pectin that kind of gun play. I reckon now I’ll have to keep a 
little closer hid myself. These fellers all seem to get chilly or 
shaky when they draw a bead on me, but one of them might jest 
happen to hit me. ” 

“Won’t you go away — cleave Cottonwoods as I’ve begged 
you to — before some one does happen to hit you?” she appealed 
to him. 

“I reckon I’ll stay.” 

“But, oh, Lassiter — ^your blood will be on my hands!” 


204 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

“See here, lady, look at your hands now, right now. Aren’t 
they fine, firm, white hands.? Aren’t they bloody now? Lassi- 
ter s blood! That’s a queer thing to stain your beautiful hands. 
But if you could only see deeper you’d find a redder color of 
blood. Heart color, Jane!” 

“Oh! . . . My friend!” 

No, Jane, I m not one to quit when the game grows hot, no 
more than you. This game, though, is new to me, an’ I don’t 
know the moves yet, else I wouldn’t have stepped in front of 
that bullet. ” 

Have you no desire to hunt the man who fired at you — to 
find him — and — and kill him ?” 

“Well, I reckon I haven’t any great hankerin’ for that.” 

“Oh, the wonder of it! ... I knew— I prayed— I trusted. 
Lassiter, I almost gave — all myself to soften you to Mormons. 
Thank God, and thank you, my friend. . . . But, selfish woman 
that I am, this is no great test. What’s the life of one of those 
sneaking cowards to such a man as you? I think of your great 
hate toward him who — I think of your life’s implacable purpose. 
Can it be — ” 

“Wait! . . . Listen!” he whispered. “I hear a boss.” 

He rose noiselessly, with his ear to the breeze. Suddenly 
he pulled his sombrero down over his bandaged head, and swing- 
mg his gun-sheaths round in front, he stepped into the alcove. 
“It’s a boss — cornin’ fast, ” he added. 

Jane’s listening , ear soon caught a faint, rapid, rhythmic 
beat of hoofs. It came from the sage. It gave her a thrill 
that she was at a loss to understand. The sound rose stronger 
louder. Then came a clear, sharp difference when the horse 
passed from the sage trail to the hard-packed ground of the 
grove. It became a ringing run— swift in its bell-like clatterings, 
yet singular in longer pause than usual between the hoofbeats 
of a horse. 


SHADOWS ON THE SAGE-SLOPE 205 

‘‘It’s Wrangle! . . .It’s Wrangle!” cried Jane Withersteen. 
“I’d know him from a million horses!” 

Excitement and thrilling expectancy flooded out all Jane 
Withersteen’s calm. A tight band closed round her breast as 
she saw the giant sorrel flit in reddish-brown flashes across the 
openings in the green. Then he was pounding down the lane — - 
thundering into the court — crashing his great iron-shod hoofs on 
the stone flags. Wrangle it was surely, but shaggy and wild- 
eyed, and sage-streaked, with dust-caked lather staining his 
flanks. He reared and crashed down and plunged. The rider 
leaped off, threw the bridle, and held hard on a lasso looped 
round Wrangle’s head and neck. Jane’s heart sank as she tried 
to recognize Venters in the rider. Something familiar struck her 
in the lofty stature, in the sweep of powerful shoulders. But this 
bearded, long-haired, imkempt man, who wore ragged clothes 
patched with pieces of skin and boots that showed bare legs 
and feet — this dusty, dark, and wild rider could not possibly be 
Venters. 

“Whoa, Wrangle, old boy. Come down. Easy now. So — 
so — so. You’re home, old boy, and presently you can have a 
drink of water you’ll remember.” 

In the voice Jane knew the rider to be Venters. He tied 
Wrangle to the hitching-rack and turned to the court. 

“Oh, Bern! . . . You wild naan!” she exclaimed. 

“Jane — Jane, it’s good to see you! Hello, Lassiter! Yes, 
it’s Venters.” 

Like rough iron his hard hand crushed Jane’s. In it she 
felt the difference she saw in him. Wild, rugged, unshorn — ^yet 
how splendid! He had gone away a boy — he had returned a 
man. He appeared taller, wider of shoulder, deeper-chested, 
more powerfully built. But was that only her fancy— he had 
always been a young giant — was the change one of spirit? He 
might have been absent for years, proven by Are and steel, grown 


206 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


like Lassiter, strong and cool and sure. His eyes — were they 
keener, more flashing than before? — met hers with clear, frank, 
warm regard, in which perplexity was not, nor discontent, nor 
pain. 

‘‘Look at me long as you like,” he said, with a laugh. “I’m 
not much to look at. And, Jane, neither you nor Lassiter can 
brag. You’re paler than I ever saw you. Lassiter, here, he 
wears a bloody bandage under his hat. That reminds me. 
Some one took a flying shot at me down in the sage. It made 
Wrangle run some. . . . Well, perhaps you’ve more to tell me 
than I’ve got to tell you.” 

Briefly, in few words, Jane outlined the circumstances of 
her undoing in the weeks of his absence. 

Under his beard and bronze she saw his face whiten in terrible 
wrath. 

“Lassiter — what held you back? ” 

No time in the long period of fiery moments and sudden 
shocks had Jane Withersteen ever beheld Lassiter as calm and 
serene and cool as then. 

“Jane had gloom enough without my addin’ to it by shootin’ 
up the village, ” he said. 

As strange as Lassiter’s coolness was Venters’s curious, intent 
scrutiny of them both, and under it Jane felt a flaming tide wave 
from bosom to temples. 

“Well— you’re right,” he said, with slow pause. “It sur- 
prises me a little, that’s all.” 

Jane sensed then a slight alteration in Venters, and what it 
was, in her own confusion, she could not tell. It had always 
been her intention to acquaint him with the deceit she had fallen 
to in her zeal to move Lassiter. She did not mean to spare her- 
self. Yet now, at the moment, before these riders it was an 
impossibility to explain. 

Venters was speaking somewhat haltingly, without his former 


SHADOWS ON THE SAGE-SLOPE 207 

frankness. “I found Oldring’s hiding-place and your red herd. 
I learned — I know — I’m sure there was a deal between Tull and 
Oldring.” He paused and shifted his position and his gaze. 
He looked as if he wanted to say something that he found beyond 
him. Sorrow and pity and shame seemed to contend for mastery 
over him. Then he raised himself and spoke with effort. “Jane, 
I’ve cost you too much. You’ve almost ruined yourself for me. 
It was wrong, for I ’m not worth it. I never deserved such friend- 
ship. Well, maybe it’s not too late. You must give me up. 
Mind, I haven’t changed. I am just the same as ever. I’ll 
see Tull while I ’m here, and tell him to his face. ” 

“Bern, it’s too late,” said Jane. 

“I’ll make him believe!” cried Venters, violently. 

“You ask me to break our friendship.?” 

“Yes. If you don T I shall ! ” 

“Forever?” 

“Forever!” 

Jane sighed. Another shadow had lengthened down the 
sage-slope to cast further darkness upon her. A melancholy 
sweetness pervaded her resignation. The boy who had left her 
had returned a man, nobler, stronger, one in whom she divined 
something unbending as steel. There might come a moment 
later when she would wonder why she had not fought against 
his will, but just now she yielded to it. She liked him as well — 
nay, more, she thought, only her emotions were deadened by 
the long, menacing wait for the bursting storm. 

Once before she had held out her hand to him — when she 
gave it; now she stretched it tremblingly forth in acceptance of 
the decree circumstance had laid upon them. Venters bowed 
over it, kissed it, pressed it hard, and half-stifled a sound very 
like a sob. Certain it was that when he raised his head tears 
glistened in his eyes. 

“Some — women — have a hard lot,” he said, huskily. Then 


208 


EIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


he shook his powerful form, and his rags lashed about him. 
“I’ll say a few things to Tull — when I meet him.” 

“Bern — ^you’ll not draw on Tull? Oh, that must not be! 
Promise me — ” 

“I promise you this,” he interrupted, in stern passion that 
thrilled while it terrorized her. “If you say one more word for 
that plotter I’ll kill him as I would a mad coyote!” 

Jane clasped her hands. Was this fire-eyed man the one 
whom she had once made as wax to her touch? Had Venters 
become Lassiter and Lassiter Venters? 

“I’ll — say no more,” she faltered. ' 

“Jane, Lassiter once called you blind,” said Venters. “It 
must be true. But I won’t upbraid you. Only don’t rouse 
the devil in me by praying for Tull! I’ll try to keep cool when I 
meet him. That’s all. Now there’s one more thing I want to 
ask of you — the last. I’ve found a valley down in the pass. It’s 
a wonderful place. I intend to stay there. It’s so hidden I 
believe no one can find it. There’s good water, and browse, 
and game. I want to raise corn and stock. I need to take in 
supplies — will you give them to me?” 

“Assuredly. The more you take the better you’ll please me 
— and perhaps the less my — my enemies will get. ” 

“Venters, I reckon you’ll have trouble packin’ anythin’ 
away,” put in Lassiter. 

“I’ll go at night.” 

“Mebbe that wouldn’t be best. You’d sure be stopped. 
You’d better go early in the mornin’ — say, just after dawn. 
That’s the safest time to move round here.” 

“Lassiter, I’ll be hard to stop,” returned Venters, darkly. 

“I reckon so.” 

“Bern,” said Jane, “go first to the riders’ quarters and get 
yourself a complete outfit. You’re a— a sight. Then help 
yourself to whatever else you need — burros, packs, grain, dried 


SHADOWS ON THE SAGE-SLOPE 


209 


fruits, and meat. You must take coffee and sugar and flour — all 
kinds of supplies. Don’t forget corn and seeds. I remember 
how you used to starve. Please — please take all you can pack 
away from here. I ’ll make a bundle for you, which you mustn ’t 
open till you’re in your valley. How I’d like to see it! To 
judge by you and Wrangle how wild it must be!” 

Jane walked down into the outer court and approached the 
sorrel. Upstarting, he laid back his ears and eyed her. 

“Wrangle — dear old Wrangle,” she said, and put a caressing 
hand oh his matted mane. “Oh, he’s wild, but he knows me! 
Bern, can he run as fast as ever.^” 

“Run? Jane, he’s done sixty miles since last night at dark, 
and I could make him kill Black Star right now in a ten-mile 
race. ” 

“He never could,” protested Jane. “He couldn’t even if 
he was fresh. ” 

“I reckon mebbe the best boss ’ll prove himself yet,” said 
Lassiter, “an’, Jane, if it ever comes to that race I’d like you to 
be on Wrangle.” 

“I’d like that, too,” rejoined Venters. “But, Jane, maybe 
Lassiter’s hint is extreme. Bad as your prospects are you’ll 
surely never come to the running point.” 

“Who knows!” she replied, with mournful smile. 

“No, no, Jane, it can’t be so bad as all that. Soon as I 
see Tull there’ll be a change in your fortunes. I’ll hurry down 
to the village. . . . Now don’t worry.” 

Jane retired to the seclusion of her room. Lassiter’s subtle 
forecasting of disaster. Venters’s forced optimism, neither re- 
mained in mind. Material loss weighed nothing in the balance 
with other losses she was sustaining. She wondered dully at her 
sitting there, hands folded listlessly, with a kind of numb deadness 
to the passing of time and the passing of her riches. She thought 
of Venters’s friendship. She had not lost that, but she had 


210 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

lost him. Lassiter’s friendship — that was more than love — 
it would endure, but soon, he, too, would be gone. Little Fay 
slept dreamlessly upon the bed, her golden curls streaming over 
the pillow. Jane had the child’s worship. Would she lose that, 
too; and if she did, what then would be left.^ Conscience thun- 
dered at her that there was left her religion. Conscience thun- 
dered that she should be grateful on her knees for this baptism of 
fire; that through misfortune, sacrifice, and suffering her soul 
might be fused pure gold. But the old spontaneous, rapturous 
spirit no more exalted her. She wanted to be a woman — not a 
martyr. Like the saint of old who mortified his flesh, Jane With- 
ersteen had in her the temper for heroic martyrdom, if by sacri- 
ficing herself she could save the souls of others. But here the 
danmable verdict blistered her that the more she sacrificed her- 
self, the blacker grew the souls of her churchmen. There was 
something terribly wrong with her soul, something terribly wrong 
with her churchmen and her religion. In the whirling gulf of 
her thought there was yet one shining light to guide her, to sus- 
tain her in her hope; and it was that, despite her errors and her 
frailties and her blindness, she had one absolute and unfaltering 
hold on ultimate and supreme justice. That was love. “Love 
your enemies as yourself!” was a divine word, entirely free from 
any church or creed. 

Jane’s meditations were disturbed by Lassiter’s soft, tinkling 
step in the court. Always he wore the clinking spurs. Always 
he was in readiness to ride. She passed out, and called him into 
the huge, dim hall. 

^ “I think you’ll be safer here. The court is too open,” she 
said. 

I reckon, replied Lassiter. **An’ it’s cooler here. The 
day’s sure muggy. Well, I went down to the village with 
Venters. ” 

“Already! Where is he.?^” queried Jane, in quick amaze. 


SHADOWS ON THE SAGE-SLOPE 211 

“He’s at the corrals. Blake’s helpin’ him get the burros an’ 
packs ready. That Blake is a good fellow.” 

“Did — did Bern meet Tull.^” 

“I guess he did,” answered Lassiter, and he laughed dryly. 

“Tell me! Oh, you exasperate me! You’re so cool, so calm! 
For Heaven’s sake, tell me what happened!” 

“First time I’ve been in the village for weeks,” went on 
Lassiter, mildly. “I reckon there ain’t been more of a show 
for a long time. Me an’ Venters walkin’ down the road! It 
was funny. I ain’t sayin’ anybody was particular glad to see 
us. I’m not much thought of hereabouts, an’ Venters he sure 
looks like what you called him, a wild man. Well, there was 
some runnin’ of folks before we got to the stores. Then every- 
body vamoosed except some surprised rustlers in front of a 
saloon. Venters went right in the stores an’ saloons, an’ of 
course I went along. I don ’t know which tickled me the most — 
the actions of many fellers we met, or Venters’s nerve. Jane, I 
was downright glad to be along. You see that sort of thing is 
my element, an ’ I ’ ve been away from it for a spell. But we didn ’t 
find Tull in none of them places. Some Gentile feller at last 
told Venters he’d find Tull in that long buildin’ next to Parsons’s 
store. It’s a kind of mee tin ’-room; and sure enough, when we 
peeped in, it was half full of men. 

“Venters yelled: ‘Don’t anybody pull guns! We ain’t come 
for that!’ Then he tramped in, an’ I was some put to keep 
alongside him. There was a hard, scrapin ’ sound of feet, a loud 
cry, an’ then some whisperin’, an’ after that stillness you could 
cut with a knife. Tull was there, an’ that fat party who once 
tried to throw a gun on me, an’ other important-lookin’ men, 
an’ that little frog-legged feller who was with Tull the day I 
rode in here. I wish you could have seen their faces, ’specially 
Tulls’ an’ the fat party’s. But there ain’t no use of me tryin’ 
to tell you how they looked. 


212 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


‘‘Well, Venters an’ I stood there in the middle of the room 
with that batch of men all in front of us, an’ not a blamed one 
of them winked an eyelash or moved a finger. It was natural, 
of course, for me to notice many of them packed guns. That’s 
a way of mine, first noticin’ them things. Venters spoke up, 
an’ his voice sort of chilled an’ cut, an’ he told Tull he had a 
few things to say.” 

Here Lassiter paused while he turned his sombrero round and 
round, in his familiar habit, and his eyes had the look of a man 
seeing over again some thrilling spectacle, and under his red 
bronze there was strange animation. 

“Like a shot, then. Venters told Tull that the friendship 
between you an ’ him was all over, an ’ he was leaving your place. 
He said you’d both of you broken off in the hope of propitiatin’ 
your people, but you hadn’t changed your mind otherwise, an’ 
never would. 

“Next he spoke up for you. I ain’t goin’ to tell you what he 
said. Only — no other woman who ever lived ever had such 
tribute! You had a champion, Jane, an’ never fear that those 
thick-skulled men don’t know you now. It couldn’t be other- 
wise. He spoke the ringin’, lightnin’ truth. . . . Then he 
accused Tull of the underhand, miserable robbery of a helpless 
woman. He told Tull where the red herd was, of a deal made 
with Oldrin’, that Jerry Card had made the deal. I thought 
Tull was goin’ to drop, an’ that little frog -legged cuss, 
he looked some limp an’ white. But Venters’s voice would 
have kept anybody’s legs from bucklin’. I was stiff myself. 
He went on an’ called Tull — called him every bad name known 
to a rider, an’ then some. He cursed Tull. I never hear a man 
get such a cursin’. He laughed in scorn at the idea of Tull 
bein’ a minister. He said Tull an’ a few more dogs of hell 
builded their empire out of the hearts of such innocent an’ God- 
fearin’ women as Jane Withersteen. He called Tull a blinder 


SHADOWS ON THE SAGE-SLOPE 


213 


of women, a callous beast who bid behind a mock mantle of right- 
eousness — an ’ the last an ’ lowest coward on the face of the earth. 
To prey on weak women through their religion — that was the 
last unspeakable crime! 

“Then he finished, an’ by this time he’d almost lost his 
voice. But his whisper was enough. ‘Tull, ’ he said, * she begged 
me not to draw on you to-day. She would pray for you if you 
burned her at the stake. . . . But, listen! ... I swear if you 
and I ever come face to face again, I’ll kill you!’ 

“We backed out of the door then, an’ up the road. But 
nobody follered us.” 

Jane found herseF weeping passionately. She had not been 
conscious of it till Lassiter ended his story, and she experienced 
exquisite pain and relief in shedding tears. Long had her eyes 
been dry, her grief deep; long had her emotions been dumb. 
Lassiter’s story put her on the rack; the appalling nature of 
Venters’s act and speech had no parallel as an outrage; it was 
worse than bloodshed. Men like Tull had been shot, but had 
one ever been so terribly denounced in public? Overmounting 
her horror, an uncontrollable, quivering passion shook her very 
soul. It was sheer human glory in the deed of a fearless man. 
It was hot, primitive instinct to live — to fight. It was a kind 
of mad joy in Venters’s chivalry. It was close to the wrath that 
had first shaken her in the beginning of this war waged upon her. 

“Well, well, Jane, don’t take it that way,” said Lassiter, 
in evident distress. “I had to tell you. There’s some things 
a feller jest can’t keep. It’s strange you give up on bearin’ 
that, when all this long time you’ve been the gamest woman I 
ever seen. But I don’t know women. Mebbe there’s reason 
for you to cry. I know this — ^nothin’ ever rang in my soul an 
so filled it as what Venters did. I’d like to have done it, but— 
I’m only good for thro win’ a gun, an’ it seems you hate that. 
. . . Well, I’ll be goin’ now.” 


214 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


‘‘Where?” 

“Venters took Wrangle to the stable. The sorreTs shy 
a shoe, an’ I’ve got to help hold the big devil an’ put on 
another. ” 

“Tell Bern to come for the pack I want to give him — and — 
and to say good-by,” called Jane, as Lassiter went out. 

Jane passed the rest of that day in a vain endeavor to decide 
what and what not to put in the pack for Venters. This task 
was the last she would ever perform for him, and the gifts were 
the last she would ever make him. So she picked and chose and 
rejected, and chose again, and often paused in sad re very, and 
began again, till at length she filled the pack. 

It was about sunset, and she and Fay had finished supper 
and were sitting in the court, when Venters’s quick steps rang 
on the stones. She scarcely knew him, for he had changed the 
tattered garments, and she missed the dark beard and long hair. 
Still he was not the Venters of old. As he came up the steps 
she felt herself pointing to the pack, and heard herself speaking 
words that were meaningless to her. He said good-by; he kissed 
her, released her, and turned away. His tall figure blurred in 
her sight, grew dim through dark, streaked vision, and then he 
vanished. 

Twilight fell around Withersteen House, and dusk and night. 
Little Fay slept; but Jane lay with strained, aching eyes. She 
heard the wind moaning in the cottonwoods and mice squeaking 
in the walls. The night was interminably long, yet she prayed 
to hold back the dawn. What would another day bring forth? 
The blackness of her room seemed blacker for the sad, entering 
gray of morning light. She heard the chirp of awakening birds, 
and fancied she caught a faint clatter of hoofs. Then low, dull, 
distant, throbbed a heavy gunshot. She had expected it, was 
waiting for it; nevertheless, an electric shock checked her heart, 
froze the very living fiber of her bones. That vise-like hold on 


SHADOWS ON THE SAGE-SLOPE 215 

her faculties apparently did not relax for a long time, and it 
was a voice under her window that released her. 

“Jane! . . . Jane!” softly called Lassiter. 

She answered somehow. 

“It’s all right. Venters got away. I thought mebbe you’d 
heard that shot, an’ I was worried some.” 

“What was it — who fired?” 

“Well — some fool feller tried to stop Venters out there in the 
sage — an’ he only stopped lead ! . . . I think it’ll be all right. I 
haven’t seen or heard of any other fellers round. Venters ’ll 
go through safe. An’, Jane, I’ve got Bells saddled, an’ I’m 
goin’ to trail Venters. Mind, I won’t show myself unless he 
falls foul of somebody an’ needs me. I want to see if this place 
where he’s goin’ is safe for him. He says nobody can track 
him there. I never seen the place yet I couldn ’t track a man to. 
Now Jane, you stay indoors while I’m gone, an’ keep close 
watch on Fay. Will you?” 

“Yes! Oh yes!” 

“An’ another thing, Jane,” he continued, then paused for 
long — “another thing — if you ain’t here when I come back — if 
you’re gone — don’t fear. I’ll trail you — I’ll find you. 

“My dear Lassiter, where could I be gone — as you put it?” 
asked Jane, in curious surprise. 

“I reckon you might be somewhere. Mebbe tied in an old 
bam — or corralled in some gulch — or chained in a cave! Milly 
Erne was — till she give iu! Mebbe that’s news to you . . . . 
Well, if you ’re gone I ’ll hunt for you. ” 

“No, Lassiter,” she replied, sadly and low. “If I m gone 
just forget the unhappy woman whose blinded, selfish deceit 
you repaid with kindness and love.” 

She heard a deep, muttering curse, under his breath, and then 
the silvery tinkling of his spurs as he moved away. 

Jane entered upon the duties of that day with a settled, 
15 


216 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

gloomy calm. Disaster hung in the dark clouds, in the shade, in 
the humid west wind. Blake, when he reported, appeared 
without his usual cheer; and Jerd wore a harassed look of a worn 
and worried man. And when Judkins put in appearance, riding 
a lame horse, and dismounted with the cramp of a rider, his 
dust-covered figure and his darkly grim, almost dazed expression 
told Jane of dire calamity. She had no need of words. 

“Miss Withersteen, I have to report— loss of the— white 
herd,” said Judkins, hoarsely. 

“Come, sit down; you look played out,” replied Jane, solicit- 
ously. She brought him brandy and food, and while he partook 
of refreshments, of which he appeared badly in need, she asked 
no questions. 

“No one rider — could hev done more — Miss Withersteen,” 
he went on, presently. 

“Judkins, don’t be distressed. You’ve done more than any 
other rider. I’ve long expected to lose the white herd. It’s 
no surprise. It s in line with other things that are happening. 

I ’m grateful for your service. ” 

“Miss Withersteen, I knew how you’d take it. But, if 
anythin’, that makes it harder to tell. You see, a feller wants 
to do so much fer you, an’ I’d got fond of my job. We hed the 
herd a ways off to the north of the break in the valley. There 
was a big level an’ pools of water an’ tip-top browse. But the 
cattle was in a high nervous condition. Wild— as wild as ante- 
lope! You see, they’d been so scared they never slept. I ain’t 

a-goin^ to tell you of the many tricks that were pulled off out 
there in the sage. But there wasn’t a day fer weeks thet the 
herd didn’t get started to run. We alius managed to ride ’em 
close an’ drive ’em back an’ keep ’em bunched. Honest, Miss 
Withersteen, them steers was thin. They was thin when water and 
grass was everywhere. Thin at this season— thet ’ll tell you 
how your steers was pestered. Fer instance, one night a strange 


217 


SHADOWS ON THE SAGE-SLOPE 

runnin’ streak of fire run right through the herd. That streak 
was a coyote — with an oiled an' blazin' tail! Per I shot it an’ 
found out. We hed hell with the herd that night, an’ if the 
sage an’ grass hedn’t been wet — we, bosses, steers, an’ all would 
hev burned up. But I said I wasn’t goin’ to tell you any of 
the tricks. . . . Strange now, Miss Withersteen, when the 
stampede did come it was from natural cause — jest a whirlin’ 
devil of dust. You’ve seen the like often. An’ this wasn’t 
no big whirl, fer the dust was mostly settled. It had dried out 
in a little swale, an’ ordinarily no steer would ever hev run fer 
it. But the herd was nervous an’ wild. An’ jest as Lassiter 
said, when that bunch of white steers got to movin’ they was as 
bad as buffalo. I’ve seen some buffalo stampedes back in Ne- 
braska, an’ this bolt of the steers was the same kind. 

‘T tried to mill the herd jest as Lassiter did. But I wasn’t 
equal to it. Miss Withersteen. I don’t believe the rider lives 
who could hev turned thet herd. We kept along of the herd 
fer miles, an’ more’n one of my boys tried to get the steers 
a-millin’. It wasn’t no use. We got off level ground, goin’ 
down, an’ then the steers ran somethin’ fierce. We left the little 
gullies an’ washes level-full of dead steers. Finally I saw the 
herd was makin’ to pass a kind of low pocket between ridges. 
There was a hog-back — as we used to call ’em — a pile of rocks 
stickin’ up, an’ I saw the herd was goin’ to split roimd it, or 
swing out to the left. An’ I wanted ’em to go to the right so 
mebbe we’d be able to drive ’em into the pocket. So, with all 
niy boys except three, I rode hard to turn the herd a little to the 
right. We couldn’t budge ’em. They went on an’ split roimd 
the rocks, an’ the most of ’em was turned sharp to the left by 
a deep wash we hedn’t seen — hed no chance to see. 

“The other three boys — ^Jimmy Vail, Joe Wills, an’ thet 
little Cairns boy — a nervy kid! they, with Cairns leadin’, tried 
to buck thet herd round to the pocket. It was a wild, fool idee. 


218 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


I couldn’t do nothin’. The boys got hemmed in between the 
steers an’ the wash — thet they hedn’t no chance to see, either. 
Vail an’ Wills was run down right before our eyes. An’ Cairns, 
who rode a fine hoss, he did some ridin’ I never seen equaled, 
an’ would hev beat the steers if there ’d been any room to run in. 
I was high up an ’ could see how the steers kept spillin ’ by twos an ’ 
threes over into the wash. Cairns put his hoss to a place thet 
was too wide fer any hoss, an ’ broke his neck an ’ the boss’s too. 
We found thet out after, an’ as fer Vail an’ Wills — two thousand 
steers ran over the poor boys. There wasn’t much left to pack 
home fer burying! ... An’, Miss Withersteen, thet all hap- 
pened yesterday, an’ I believe, if the white herd didn’t run over 
the wall of the pass, it’s runnin’ yet.” 

On the morning of the second day after Judkins’s recital, 
during which time Jane remained indoors a prey to regret and 
sorrow for the boy riders, and a new and now strangely insistent 
fear for her own person, she again heard what she had missed 
more than she dared honestly confess — the soft, jingling step of 
Lassiter. Almost overwhelming relief surged through her, a 
feeling as akin to joy as any she could have been capable of in 
those gloomy hours of shadow, and one that suddenly stunned 
her with the significance of what Lassiter had come to mean to 
her. She had begged him, for his own sake, to leave Cottonwoods. 
She might yet beg that, if her weakening courage permitted 
her to dare absolute loneliness and helplessness, but she realized 
now that if she were left alone her life would become one long, 
hideous nightmare. 

When his soft steps clinked into the hall, in answer to her 
greeting, and his tall, black-garbed form filled the door, she felt 
an inexpressible sense of immediate safety. In his presence 
she lost her fear of the dim passageways of Withersteen House, 
and of every sound. Always it had been that, when he entered 
the court or the hall, she had experienced a distinctly sickening 


219 


SHADOWS ON THE SAGE-SLOPE 

but gradually lessening shock at sight of the huge black guns 
swmgmg at his sides. This time the sickening shock again visited 
her; it was, however, because a revealing flash of thought told 
her that it was not alone Lassiter who was thrillingly welcome, 
but also his fatal weapons. They meant so much. How she 
had fallen— how broken and spiritless must she he— to have still 
the same old horror of Lassiter’s guns and his name, yet feel 
somehow a cold, shrinking protection in their law and might and 
use. 

“Did you trail Venters — ^flnd his wonderful valley?” she 
asked, eagerly. 

“Yes, an’ I reckon it’s sure a wonderful place.” 

“Is he safe there?” 

“That’s been botherin’ me some. I tracked him, an’ part 
of the trail was the hardest I ever tackled. Mebbe there’s a 
rustler or somebody in this country who’s as good at trackin’ 
as I am. If that’s so Venters ain’t safe.” 

“Well — tell me all about Bern and his valley.” 

To Jane’s surprise Lassiter showed disinclination for further 
talk about his trip. He appeared to be extremely fatigued. 
Jane reflected that one hundred and twenty miles, with probably 
a great deal of climbing on foot, all in three days, was enough 
to tire any rider. Moreover, it presently developed that Lassiter 
had returned in a mood of singular sadness and preoccupation. 
She put it down to a moodiness over the loss of her white herd, 
and the now precarious condition of her fortune. 

Several days passed, and, as nothing happened, Jane’s spirits 
began to brighten. Once in her musings she thought that this 
tendency of hers to rebound was as sad as it was futile. Mean- 
while, she had resumed her walks through the grove with little 
Lay. 

One morning she went as far as the sage. She had not seen 
the slope since the beginning of the rains, and now it bloomed a 


220 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


rich deep purple. There was a high wind blowing, and the 
sage tossed and waved, and colored beautifully from light to 
dark. Clouds scudded across the sky, and their shadows sailed 
darkly down the sunny slope. 

Upon her return toward the house she went by the lane to 
the stables, and she had scarcely entered the great open space 
with its corrals and sheds, when she saw Lassiter hurriedly ap- 
proaching. Fay broke from her, and, running to a corral fence, 
began to pat and pull the long, hanging ears of a drowsy burro. 

One look at Lassiter armed her for a blow. 

Without a word he led her across the wide yard to the rise 
of the ground upon which the stable stood. 

“Jane — look!” he said, and pointed to the ground. 

Jane glanced down, and again, and upon steadier vision 
made out splotches of blood on the stones, and broad, smooth 
marks in the dust, leading out toward the sage. 

“What made these.^” she asked. 

“I reckon somebody has dragged dead or woimded men out 
to where there was bosses in the sage. ” 

“ Dead — or — wounded — men ! ” 

“I reckon — ^Jane, are you strong? Can you bear up?” 

His hands were gently holding hers, and his eyes — suddenly 
she could no longer look into them. “Strong?” she echoed, 
trembling. “I — I will be.” 

Up the stone-flag drive, nicked with the marks made by the 
iron-shod hoofs of her racers, Lassiter led her, his grasp ever 
growing firmer. 

“Where’s Blake — and — and Jerd?” she asked, haltingly. 

“I don’t know where Jerd is. Bolted, most likely,” replied 
Lassiter, as he took her through the stone door. “But Blake- 
poor Blake! He’s gone forever! ... Be prepared, Jane.” 

With a cold prickling of her skin, with a queer thrumming 
in her ears, with fixed and staring eyes, Jane saw a gun lying 


SHADOWS ON THE SAGE-SLOPE m 

at her feet with chamber swimg and empty, and discharged 
shells scattered near. 

Outstretched upon the stable floor lay Blake, ghastly white — 
dead — one hand clutching a gun, and the other twisted in his 
bloody blouse. 

“Whoever the thieves were, whether your people or rustlers 
— ^Blake killed some of them!” said Lassiter. 

“Thieves?” whispered Jane. 

“I reckon. Hoss-thieves ! . . . Look!” Lassiter waved his 
hand toward the stalls. 

The first stall — ^Bells’s stall — was empty. All the stalls were 
empty. No racer whinnied and stamped greeting to her. Night 
was gone! Black Star was gone! 


CHAPTER XVI 


GOLD 

AS Lassiter had reported to Jane, Venters “went through” 
jLjL safely, and after a toilsome journey reached the peaceful 
shelter of Surprise Valley. When finally he laid wearily down 
under the silver spruces, resting from the strain of dragging 
packs and burros up the slope and through the entrance to Sur- 
prise Valley, he had leisure to think, and a great deal of the time 
went in regretting that he had not been frank with his loyal 
friend, Jane Withersteen. 

But, he kept continually recalling, when he had stood once 
more face to face with her and had been shocked at the change 
in her and had heard the details of her adversity, he had not 
had the heart to tell her of the closer interest which had entered 
his life. He had not lied; yet he had kept silence. 

Bess was in transports over the stores of supplies and the 
outfit he had packed from Cottonwoods. He had certainly 
brought a hundred times more than he had gone for; enough, 
surely, for years, perhaps to make permanent home in the valley. 
He saw no reason why he need ever leave there again. 

After a day of rest he recovered his strength, and shared 
Bess’s pleasure in rummaging over the endless packs, and began 
to plan for the future. And in this planning, his trip to Cotton- 
woods, with its revived hate of Tull and consequent unleashing 
of fierce passions, soon faded out of mind. By slower degrees 
his friendship for Jane Withersteen and his contrition drifted 


GOLD £23 

from the active preoccupation of his present thought to a place 
in memory, with more and more infrequent recalls. 

And as far as the state of his mind was concerned, upon 
the second day after his return, the valley, with its golden hues 
and purple shades, the speaking west wind and the cool, silent 
night, and Bess’s watching eyes with their wonderful light, so 
wrought upon Venters that he might never have left them 
at all. 

That very afternoon he set to work. Only one thing hindered 
him upon beginning, though it in no wise checked his delight, 
and that was that in the multiplicity of tasks planned to make 
a paradise out of the valley he could not choose the one with 
which to begin. He had to grow into the habit of passing from 
one dreamy pleasure to another, like a bee going from flower to 
flower in the valley, and he found this wandering habit likely 
to extend to his labors. Nevertheless, he made a start. 

At the outset he discovered Bess to be both a considerable 
help in some ways and a very great hindrance in others. Her 
excitement and joy were spurs, inspirations; but she was utterly 
impracticable in her ideas, and she flitted from one plan to another 
with bewildering vacillation. Moreover, he fancied that she 
grew more eager, youthful, and sweet; and he marked that it 
was far easier to watch her and listen to her than it was to work. 
Therefore he gave her tasks that necessitated her going often 
to the cave where he had stored his packs. 

Upon the last of these trips, when he was some distance 
down the terrace and out of sight of camp, he heard a scream, 
and then the sharp barking of the dogs. 

For an instant he straightened up, amazed. Danger for 
her had been absolutely out of his mind. She had seen a rattle- 
snake — or a wildcat. Still she would not have been likely to 
scream at sight of either; and the barking of the dogs was omi- 
nous. Dropping his work, he dashed back along the terrace. 


224 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


Upon breaking through a clump of aspens he saw the dark form 
of a man in the camp. Cold, then hot. Venters burst into fren- 
zied speed to reach his guns. He was cursing himself for a 
thoughtless fool when the man’s tall form became familiar, and 
he recognized Lassiter. Then the reversal of emotions changed 
his run to a walk; he tried to call out, but his voice refused to 
carry; when he reached camp there was Lassiter staring at the 
white-faced girl. By that time Ring and Whitie had recognized 
him. 

“Hello, Venters, I’m makin’ you a visit,” said Lassiter, 
slowly. “An’ I’m some surprised to see you’ve a — a young 
feller for company.” 

One glance had sufficed for the keen rider to read Bess’s real 
sex, and for once his cool calm had deserted him. He stared 
till the white of Bess’s cheeks flared into crimson. That, if it 
were needed, was the concluding evidence of her femininity; 
for it went fittingly with her sun-tinted hair and darkened, 
dilated eyes, the sweetness of her mouth and the striking sym- 
metry of her slender shape. 

“Heavens! Lassiter!” panted Venters, when he caught his 
breath. “What relief — it’s only you! How — in the name of 
all — that’s wonderful — did you ever get here?” 

“I trailed you. We — ^I wanted to know where you was, 
if you had a safe place. So I trailed you.” 

“Trailed me!” cried Venters, bluntly. 

“I reckon. It was some of a job after I got to them smooth 
rocks. I was all day trackin’ you up to them little cut steps 
in the rock. The rest was easy.” 

“Where’s your hoss? I hope you hid him.” 

“I tied him in them queer cedars down on the slope. He 
can’t be seen from the valley.” 

“That’s good. Well, well! I’m completely dumfounded. 
It was my idea that no man could track me in here.” 


GOLD 225 

“I reckon. But if there’s a tracker in these uplands as good 
as me he can find you. ” 

“That’s bad. That ’ll worry me. But, Lassiter, now 
you’re here I’m glad to see you. And — and my companion 
here is not a young fellow! . . . Bess, this is a friend of mine. 
He saved my life once. ” 

The embarrassment of the moment did not extend to Lassi- 
ter. Almost at once his manner, as he shook hands with Bess, 
relieved Venters and put the girl at ease. After Venters’s words 
and one quick look at Lassiter, her agitation stilled, and, though 
she was shy, if she were conscious of anything out of the ordinary 
in the situation, certainly she did not show it. 

“I reckon I’ll only stay a little while,” Lassiter was saying. 
“An’ if you don’t mind troublin’, I’m hungry. I fetched some 
biscuits along, but they’re gone. Venters, this place is sure 
the wonderfulest ever seen. Them cut steps on the slope! That 
outlet into the gorge! An’ it’s like climbin’ up through hell 
into heaven to climb through that gorge into this valley ! There ’s 
a queer-lookin’ rock at the top of the passage. I didn’t have 
time to stop. I’m wonderin’ how you ever found this place. 
It’s sure interestin’.” 

During the preparation and eating of dinner Lassiter listened 
mostly, as was his wont, and occasionally he spoke in his quaint 
and dry way. Venters noted, however, that the rider showed 
an increasing interest in Bess. He asked her no questions, and 
only directed his attention to her while she was occupied and had 
no opportunity to observe his scrutiny. It seemed to Venters 
that Lassiter grew more and more absorbed in his study of Bess, 
and that he lost his coolness in some strange, softening sympathy. 
Then, quite abruptly, he arose, and announced the necessity 
for his early departure. He said good-by to Bess in a voice gentle 
and somewhat broken, and turned hurriedly away. Venters ac- 
companied him, and they had traversed the terrace, climbed the 


226 RIDERS op THE PURPLE SAGE 

weathered slope, and passed under the stone bridge before either 
spoke again. 

Then Lassiter put a great hand on Venters’s shoulder and 
wheeled him to meet a smoldering fire of gray eyes. 

“Lassiter, I couldn’t tell Jane! I couldn’t!” burst out 
Venters, reading his friend’s mind. “I tried. But I couldn’t. 
She wouldn’t understand, and she has troubles enough. And 
I love the girl!” 

“Venters, I reckon this beats me. I’ve seen some queer 
things in my time, too. This girl — who is she?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Don ’t know ! What is she, then ? ” 

“I don’t know that, either. Oh, it’s the strangest story you 
ever heard. I must tell you. But you ’ll never believe. ” 

“Venters, women were always puzzles to me. But for all 
that, if this girl ain’t a child, an’ as innocent, I’m no fit person 
to think of virtue an’ goodness in anybody. Are you goin’ to 
be square with her?” 

“lam — so help me God ! ” 

“I reckoned so. Mebbe my temper oughtn’t led me to make 
sure. But, man, she ’s a woman in all but years. She ’s sweeter’n 
the sage.” 

“Lassiter, I know, I know. And the hell of it is that in 
spite of her innocence and charm she’s — she’s not what she 
seems!” 

“I wouldn’t want to — of course, I couldn’t call you a liar. 
Venters,” said the older man. 

“What’s more, she was Oldring’s Masked Rider!” 

Venters expected to floor his friend with that statement, 
but he was not in any way prepared for the shock his words 
gave. For an instant he was astounded to see Lassiter stunned; 
then his own passionate eagerness to unbosom himself, to tell 
the wonderful story, precluded any other thought. 


GOLD 


227 

Son, tell me all about this, presently said Lassiter as he 
seated himself on a stone and wiped his moist brow. 

Thereupon Venters began his narrative at the point where 
he had shot the rustler and Oldring’s Masked Rider, and he 
rushed through it, telling all, not holding back even Bess’s un- 
reserved avowal of her love or his deepest emotions. 

“That’s the story,” he said, concluding. “I love her, 
though I ve never told her. If I did tell her I’d be ready to 
marry her, and that seems impossible in this country. I’d be 
afraid to risk taking her anywhere. So I intend to do the best 
I can for her here. ” 

“The longer I live the stranger life is,” mused Lassiter, with 
downcast eyes. “I’m reminded of somethin’ you once said to 
Jane about hands in her game of life. There’s that unseen hand 
of power, an’ Tull’s black hand, an’ my red one, an’ your in- 
different one, an’ the girl’s little brown, helpless one. An’, 
Venters, there’s another one that’s all- wise an’ all-wonderful. 
Thafs the hand guidin’ Jane Withersteen’s game of life! . . . 
Your story’s one to daze a far clearer head than mine. I can’t 
offer no advice, even if you asked for it. Mebbe I can help you. 
Anyway, I’ll hold Oldrin’ up when he comes to the village, an’ 
find out about this girl. I knew the rustler years ago. He’ll 
remember me.” 

“Lassiter, if I ever meet Oldring I’ll kill him!” cried Venters, 
with sudden intensity. 

“I reckon that’d be perfectly natural,” replied the rider. 

“Make him think Bess is dead — as she is to him, and that 
old life.” 

“Sure, sure, son. Cool down now. If you’re goin’ to begin 
pullin’ guns on Tull an’ Oldrin’ you want to be cool. I reckon, 
though, you ’d better keep hid here. Well, I must be leavin ’. ” 

“One thing, Lassiter. You’ll not tell Jane about Bess.f^ 
Please don’t!” 


228 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


‘T reckon not. But I wouldn’t be afraid to bet that after 
she’d got over anger at your secrecy — Venters, she’d be furious 
once in her life! — she’d think more of you. I don’t mind sayin’ 
for myself that I think you’re a good deal of a man.” 

In the further ascent Venters halted several times with the 
intention of saying good-by, yet he changed his mind and kept 
on climbing till they reached Balancing Rock. Lassiter examined 
the hugh rock, listened to Venters’s idea of its position and sug- 
gestion, and curiously placed a strong hand upon it. 

“Hold on!” cried Venters. “I heaved at it once and have 
never gotten over my scare. ” 

“Well, you do seem oncommon nervous,” replied Lassiter, 
much amused. “Now, as for me, why I always had the funniest 
notion to roll stones! When I was a kid I did it, an’ the bigger 
I got the bigger stones I’d roll. Ain’t that funny? Honest — 
even now I often get off my hoss jest to tumble a big stone over 
a precipice, an’ watch it drop, an’ listen to it bang an’ boom. 
I’ve started some slides in my time, an’ don’t you forget it. I 
never seen a rock I wanted to roll as bad as this one! Wouldn’t 
there jest be roarin’, crashin’ hell down that trail?” 

“You’d close the outlet forever!” exclaimed Venters. “Well, 
good-by, Lassiter. Keep my secret and don’t forget me. And 
be mighty careful how you get out of the valley below. The 
rustlers’ canon isn’t more than three miles up the pass. Now 
you’ve tracked me here I’ll never feel safe again.” 

In his descent to the valley, Venters’s emotion, roused to 
stirring pitch by the recital of his love story, quieted gradually, 
and in its place came a sober, thoughtful mood. All at once 
he saw that he was serious, because he would never more regain 
his sense of security while in the valley. What Lassiter could do 
another skilful tracker might duplicate. Among the many riders 
with whom Venters had ridden he recalled no one who could 
have taken his trail at Cottonwoods and have followed it to the 


GOLD 229 

edge of the bare slope in the pass, let alone up that glistening 
smooth stone. Lassiter, however, was not an ordinary rider 
Instead of hunting cattle tracks he had likely spent a goodly 
portion of his life tracking men. It was not improbable that 
among Oldrmg’s rustlers there was one who shared Lassiter’s 
gilt for trailing. And the more Venters dwelt on this possibility 
the more perturbed he grew. 

Lassiter’s visit, moreover, had a disquieting effect upon 
Bess; and Venters fancied that she entertained the same thought 
as to future seclusion. The breaking of their solitude, though 
by a well-meaning friend, had not only dispelled all its dream 
and much of its charm, but had instUled a canker of fear. Both 
had seen the footprint in the sand. 

Venters did no more work that day. Sunset and twilight 
gave way to night, and the canon bird whistled its melancholy 
notes, and the wind sang softly in the cliffs, and the camp-fire 
blazed and burned down to red embers. To Venters a subtle 
difference was apparent in all of these, or else the shadowy change 
had been in him. He hoped that on the morrow this slight 
depression would have passed away. 

In that measure, however, he was doomed to disappointment. 
Futhermore, Bess reverted to a wistful sadness that he had not 
observed in her since her recovery. His attempt to cheer her 
out of it resulted in dismal failure, and consequently in a darken- 
ing of his own mood. Hard work relieved him; still, when the 
day had passed, his unrest returned. Then he set to deliberate 
thinking, and there came to him the startling conviction that he 
must leave Surprise Valley and take Bess with him. As a rider 
he had taken many chances, and as an adventurer in Deception 
Pass he had unhesitatingly risked his life; but now he would 
run no preventable hazard of Bess’s safety and happiness, and 
he was too keen not to see that hazard. It gave him a pang 
to think of leaving the beautiful valley, just when he had the 


230 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


means to establish a permanent and delightful home there. 
One flashing thought tore in hot temptation through his mind — 
why not climb up into the gorge, roll Balancing Rock down the 
trail, and close forever the outlet to Deception Pass.^ ‘‘That was 
the beast in me — showing his teeth!” muttered Venters, scorn- 
fully. “I’ll just kill him good and quick! I’ll be fair to this 
girl, if it’s the last thing I do on earth!” 

Another day went by, in which he worked less and pondered 
more and all the time covertly watched Bess. Her wistfulness 
had deepened into downright unhappiness, and that made his 
task to tell her all the harder. He kept the secret another day, 
hoping by some chance she might grow less moody, and to his 
exceeding anxiety she fell into far deeper gloom. Out of his 
own secret and the torment of it he divined that she, too, had a 
secret, and the keeping of it was torturing her. As yet he had 
no plan thought out in regard to how or when to leave the valley, 
but he decided to tell her the necessity of it and to persuade her 
to go. Furthermore, he hoped his speaking out would induce 
her to unburden her own mind. 

“Bess, what’s wrong with you?” he asked. 

“Nothing,” she answered, with averted face. 

Venters took hold of her, and gently though masterfully 
forced her to meet his eyes. 

“You can’t look at me and lie,” he said. “Now — what’s 
wrong with you? You’re keeping something from me. Well, 
I’ve got a secret, too, and I intend to tell it presently.” 

“Oh — I have a secret. I was crazy to tell you when you came 
back. That’s why I was so silly about everything. I kept 
holding my secret back— gloating over it. But when Lassiter 
came I got an idea — that changed my mind. Then I hated to 
tell you. ” 

“Are you going to now?” 

“Yes — yes. I was coming to it. I tried yesterday, but 


GOLD 


231 

fonge^”^ ^ ^ “«ch 

‘‘Very well, most mysterious lady, tell your wonderful secret. ” 
You needn t laugh,” she retorted, with a first glimpse of 
reviving spirit. “I can take the laugh out of you in one 
second. 

“It’s a go.” 

_ She ran through the spruces to the cave, and returned carry- 
ing something which was manifestly heavy. Upon nearer view 
he saw that whatever she held with such evident importance had 
been bound up m a black scarf he well remembered. That alone 
was sufficient to make him tingle with curiosity. 

‘‘Have you any idea what I did in your absence?” she asked. 

I imagine you lounged about waiting and watching for me ” 
he replied, smiling. “I’ve my share of conceit, you know.” 

“You’re wrong. I worked. Look at my hands.” She 
dropped on her knees close to where he sat, and, carefully de- 
positing the black bundle, she held out her hands. The palms 
and inside of her fingers were white, puckered, and worn. 

‘‘Why, Bess, you’ve been fooling in the water,” he said. 

“Fooling? Look here!” With deft fingers she spread open 
the black scarf, and the bright sun shone upon a dull, glittering 
heap of gold. 

“Gold!” he ejaculated. 

“Yes, gold! See, pounds of gold! I found it— washed it 
out of the stream picked it out grain by grain, nugget by 
nugget!” 

“Gold!” he cried. 

“Yes. Now— now laugh at my secret!” 

For a long minute Venters gazed. Then he stretched forth 
a hand to feel if the gold was real. 

Gold! he almost shouted. “Bess, there are hundreds — ^ 
thousands of dollars’ worth here!” 

16 


232 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

He leaned over to her, and put his hand, strong and clenching 
now, on hers. 

“Is there more where this came from?” he whispered. 

“Plenty of it, all the way up the stream to the cliff. You 
know I’ve often washed for gold. Then I’ve heard the men 
talk. I think there’s no great quantity of gold here, but enough 
for — for a fortune for 

“That — was — your — secret. ” 

“Yes. I hate gold. For it makes men mad. I’ve seen 
them drunk with joy, and dance and fling themselves around. 
I’ve seen them curse and rave. I’ve seen them fight like dogs 
and roll in the dust. I’ve seen them kill each other for gold.” 

“Is that why you hated to tell me?” 

“Not — not altogether.” Bess lowered her head. “It was 
because I knew you’d never stay here long after you found 
gold.” 

“You were afraid I’d leave you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Listen! . . . You great, simple child! Listen! . . . You 
sweet, wonderful, wild, blue-eyed girl! I was tortured by my 
secret. It was that I knew we — we must leave the valley. We 
can’t stay here much longer. I couldn’t think how we’d get 
away — out of the country — or how we’d live, if we ever got out. 
I’m a beggar. That’s why I kept my secret. I’m poor. It 
takes money to make way beyond Sterling. We couldn’t ride 
horses or burros or walk forever. So while I knew we must go, 
I was distracted over how to go and what to do. l^cnjol We’ve 
gold! Once beyond Sterling we’ll be safe from rustlers. We’ve 
no others to fear. 

“Oh! Listen! Bess!” Venters now heard his voice ring- 
ing high and sweet, and he felt Bess’s cold hands in his crushing 
grasp as she leaned toward him, pale, breathless. “This is 
how much I’d leave you! You made me live again! I’ll take 


GOLD ^33 

you away— far away from this wild country. You’ll begin a 
new life You’ll be happy. You shall see cities, ships, people, 
^ou shall have anything your heart craves. All the shame and 
^rrow of your life shall be forgotten— as if they had never been, 
this IS how much I’d leave you here alone— you sad-eyed girl. 
I love you! Didn’t you know it? How could you fail to know 
it. I love you! I’m free! I’m a man — a man you’ve made- — 
no more a beggar! . . . Kiss me! This is how much I’d leave 
you here alone — you beautiful, strange, unhappy girl. But I’ll 
make you happy. What— what do I care for— your past! I 
love you! I ’ll take you home to Illinois— to my mother. Then 
I’ll take you to far places. I’ll make up all you’ve lost. Oh, 
I know you love me — ^knew it before you told me. And it 
changed my life. And you’ll go with me, not as my companion 
as you are here, nor my sister, but, Bess, darling! ... As my 
wife!” 


CHAPTER XVII 


wrangle’s race run 

T he plan eventually decided upon by the lovers was for 
Venters to go to the village, secure a horse and some kind 
of a disguise for Bess, or at least less striking apparel than her 
present garb, and to return post-haste to the valley. Meanwhile, 
she would add to their store of gold. Then they would strike 
the long and perilous trail to ride out of Utah. In the event of 
his inability to fetch back a horse for her, they intended to make 
the giant sorrel carry double. The gold, a little food, saddle 
blankets, and Venters’s guns were to compose the light outfit 
with which they would make the start. 

‘T love this beautiful place,” said Bess. “It’s hard to think 
of leaving it.” 

“Hard! Well, I should think so,” replied Venters. “Maybe 
—in years — ” But he did not complete in words his thought 
that it might be possible to return after many years of absence 
and change. 

Once again Bess bade Venters farewell under the shadow of 
Balancing Rock, and this time it was with whispered hope and 
tenderness and passionate trust. Long after he had left her, all 
down through the outlet to the pass, the clinging clasp of her 
arms, the sweetness of her lips, and the sense of a new and ex- 
quisite birth of character in her remained hauntingly and thrill- 
ingly in his mind. The girl who had sadly called herself nameless 
and nothing had been marvelously transformed in the moment 


235 


WRANGLE’S RACE RUN 

of his avowal of love. It was something to think over, something 
to warm his heart, but for the present it had absolutely to be 
forgotten so that all his mind could be addressed to the trip so 
fraught with danger. 

He carried only his rifle, revolver, and a small quantity of 
bread and meat; and thus lightly burdened he made swift prog- 
ress down the slope and out into the valley. Darkness was 
coming on, and he welcomed it. Stars were blinking when he 
reached his old hiding-place in the split of caflon wall, and by 
pieir aid he slipped through the dense thickets to the grassy 
mclosure. Wrangle stood in the center of it with his head up, 
and he appeared black and of gigantic proportions in the dim 
light. Venters whistled softly, began a slow approach, and then 
called. The horse snorted and, plunging away with dull, heavy 
sound of hcofs, he disappeared in the gloom. “Wilder than ever!’’ 
muttered Venters. He followed the sorrel into the narrowing 
split between the walls, and presently had to desist because he 
could not see a foot in advance. As he went back toward the 
open Wrangle jumped out of an ebony shadow of cliff, and like 
a thunderbolt shot huge and black past him down into the starlit 
glade. Deciding that all attempts to catch Wrangle at night 
would be useless. Venters repaired to the shelving rock where 
he had hidden saddle and blanket, and there went to sleep. 

The first peep of day found him stirring, and as soon as it 
was light enough to distinguish objects, he took his lasso off his 
saddle and went out to rope the sorrel. He espied Wrangle at 
the lower end of the cove, and approached him in a perfectly 
natural manner. When he got near enough. Wrangle evidently 
recognized him, but was too wild to stand. He ran up the glade, 
and on into the narrow lane between the walls. This favored 
Venters’s speedy capture of the horse, so, coiling his noose ready 
to throw, he hurried on. Wrangle let Venters get to within a 
hundred feet, and then he broke. But as he plunged by, rapidly 


236 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


getting into his stride, Venters made a perfect throw with the 
rope. He had time to brace himself for the shock; neverthe- 
less, Wrangle threw him and dragged him several yards before 
halting. 

“You wild devil,” said Venters, as he slowly pulled Wrangle 
up. “ Don ’t you know me? Come now — old fellow — so — so — ” 

Wrangle yielded to the lasso and then to Venters ’s strong 
hand. He was as straggly and wild-looking as a horse left to 
roam free in the sage. He dropped his long ears, and stood 
readily to be saddled and bridled. But he was exceedingly 
sensitive, and quivered at every touch and sound. Venters led 
him to the thicket, and, bending the close saplings to let him 
squeeze through, at length reached the open. Sharp survey in 
each direction assured him of the usual lonely nature of the canon; 
then he was in the saddle riding south. 

Wrangle’s long, swinging canter was a wonderful ground 
gainer. His stride was almost twice that of an ordinary horse, 
and his endurance was equally remarkable. Venters pulled him 
in occasionally, and walked him up the stretches of rising ground, 
and along the soft washes. Wrangle had never yet shown any 
indication of distress while Venters rode him. Nevertheless, 
there was now reason to save the horse; therefore. Venters did 
not resort to the hurry that had characterized his former trip. 
He camped at the last water in the pass. What distance that 
was to Cottonwoods he did not know; he calculated, however, 
that it was in the neighborhood of fifty miles. 

Early in the morning he proceeded on his way, and about 
the middle of the forenoon reached the constricted gap that 
marked the southerly end of the pass, and through which led 
the trail up to the sage-level. He spied out Lassiter’s tracks 
in the dust, but no others, and, dismounting, he straightened 
out Wrangle’s bridle and began to lead him up the trail. The 
short climb, more severe on beast than on man, necessitated 


WRANGLE’S RACE RUN 237 

a rest on the level above, and during this he scanned the wide 
purple reaches of slope. 

Wrangle whistled his pleasure at the smell of the sage. Re- 
mounting, Venters headed up the white trail with the fragrant 
wind in his face. He had proceeded for perhaps a couple of 
miles when Wrangle stopped with a suddenness that threw Ven- 
ters heavily against the pommel. 

What s wrong, old boy.^” called Venters, looking down 
for a loose shoe or a snake or a foot lamed by a picked-up stone. 
Unrewarded, he raised himself from his scrutiny. Wrangle 
stood stiff, head high, with his long ears erect. Thus guided. 
Venters swiftly gazed ahead to make out a dust-clouded, dark 
group of horsemen riding down the slope. If they had seen him, 
it apparently made no difference in their speed or direction. 

Wonder who they are!” exclaimed Venters. He was not dis- 
posed to run. His cool mood tightened under the grip of excite- 
ment, as he reflected that whoever the approaching riders were 
they could not be friends. He slipped out of the saddle and 
led Wrangle behind the tallest sage-brush. It might serve to 
conceal them until the riders were close enough for him to see 
who they were; after that he would be indifferent to how soon 
they discovered him. 

After looking to his rifle, and ascertaining that it was in 
working order, he watched, and as he watched, slowly the force 
of a bitter fierceness, long dormant, gathered ready to flame 
into life. If those riders were not rustlers he had forgotten how 
rustlers looked and rode. On they came, a small group, so 
compact and dark that he could not tell their number. How 
imusual that their horses did not see Wrangle ! But such failure. 
Venters decided, was owing to the speed with which they were 
traveling. They moved at a swift canter affected more by 
rustlers than by riders. Venters grew concerned over the possi- 
bility that these horsemen would actually ride down on him 


238 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


before be had a chance to tell what to expect. When they were 
within three hundred yards, he deliberately led Wrangle out 
into the trail. 

Then he heard shouts, and the hard scrape of sliding hoofs, 
and saw horses rear and plunge back with upflung heads and 
flying manes. Several little white puffs of smoke appeared 
sharply against the black background of riders and horses, and 
shots rang out. Bullets struck far in front of Venters, and whipped 
up the dust and then hummed low into the sage. The range 
was great for revolvers, but whether the shots were meant to 
kill or merely to check advance, they were enough to fire that 
waiting ferocity in Venters. Slipping his arm through the bridle, 
so that Wrangle could not get away. Venters lifted his rifle and 
pulled the trigger twice. 

He saw the first horseman lean sideways and fall. He saw 
another lurch in his saddle and heard a cry of pain. Then 
Wrangle, plunging in fright, lifted Venters, and nearly threw 
him. He jerked the horse down with a powerful hand, and leaped 
into the saddle. Wrangle plunged again, dragging his bridle, 
that Venters had not had time to throw in place. Bending 
over with a swift movement, he secured it and dropped the loop 
over the pommel. Then, with grinding teeth, he looked to see 
what the issue would be. 

The band had scattered so as not to afford such a broad mark 
for bullets. The riders faced Venters, some with red-belching 
guns. He heard a sharper report, and just as Wrangle plunged 
again he caught the whizz of a leaden missile that would have 
hit him but for Wrangle’s sudden jump. A swift, hot wave, 
turning cold, passed over Venters. Deliberately he picked out 
the one rider with a carbine, and killed him. Wrangle snorted 
shrilly and bolted into the sage. Venters let him run a few 
rods, then with iron arm checked him. 

Five riders, surely rustlers, were left. One leaped out of 



JUST AS WRANGLE PLUNGED AGAIN HE CAUGHT THE WHIZZ OF A LEADEN MISSILE 





WRANGLE’S RACE RUN 239 

the saddle to secure his fallen comrade’s carbine. A shot from 
Veriters, which missed the man but sent the dust flying over him 
made him run back to his horse. Then they separated. The 
crippled rider went one way; the one frustrated in his attempt to 
another; Venters thought he made out a 
third rider, carrying a strange-appearing bundle and disappearing 
in the sage. But in the rapidity of action and vision he could 
not discern what it was. Two riders with three horses swung 
out to the right. Afraid of the long rifl^a burdensome weapon 
seldom carried by rustlers or riders— they had been put to rout. 

Suddenly Venters discovered that one of the two men last 
noted was riding Jane Withersteen’s horse Bells— the beautiful 
bay racer she had given to Lassiter. Venters uttered a savage 
outcry. Then the small, wiry, frog-like shape of the second 
rider, and the ease and grace of his seat in the saddle— things 
so strikingly incongruous— grew more and more faTni-li'flr in 
Venters 's sight. 

"" Jerry Card!’’ cried Venters. 

It was indeed TulFs right-hand man. Such a white-hot 
wrath inflamed Venters that he fought himself to see with clearer 
gaze. 

“It’s Jerry Card!” he exclaimed, instantly. ‘^And he’s 
riding Black Star and leading Night!” 

The long-kmdling, stormy fire in Venters’s heart burst into 
flame. He spurred Wrangle, and as the horse lengthened his 
stride Venters slipped cartridges into the magazine of his rifle 
till it was once again full. Card and his companion were now 
half a mile or more in advance, riding easily down the slope. 
Venters marked the smooth gait, and understood it when Wran- 
gle galloped out of the sage into the broad cattle trail, down 
which Venters had once tracked Jane Withersteen’s red herd. 
This hard-packed trail, from years of use, was as clean and 
smooth as a road. Venters saw Jerry Card look back over his 


240 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


shoulder; the other rider did likewise. Then the three racers 
lengthened their stride to the point where the swinging canter 
was ready to break into a gallop. 

“Wrangle, the race’s on,” said Venters, grimly. “We’ll 
canter with them and gallop with them and run with them. We ’ll 
let them set the pace. ” 

Venters knew he bestrode the strongest, swiftest, most tire- 
less horse ever ridden by any rider across the Utah uplands. 
Recalling Jane Withersteen’s devoted assurance that Night 
could run neck and neck with Wrangle, and Black Star could 
show his heels to him. Venters wished that Jane were there to 
see the race to recover her blacks end in the unqualified superi- 
ority of the giant sorrel. Then Venters found himself thankful 
that she was absent, for he meant that race to end in Jerry Card’s 
death. The first fiush, the raging of Venters’s wrath, passed, 
to leave him in sullen, almost cold possession of his will. It was 
a deadly mood, utterly foreign to his nature, engendered, fos- 
tered, and released by the wild passions of wild men in a wild 
country. The strength in him then — the thing rife in him that 
was not hate, but something as remorseless — might have been 
the fiery fruition of a whole lifetime of vengeful quest. Nothing 
could have stopped him. 

Venters thought out the race shrewdly. The rider on Bells 
would probably drop behind and take to the sage. What he 
did was of little moment to Venters. To stop Jerry Card, his 
evil, hidden career as well as his present flight, and then to catch 
the blacks — that was all that concerned Venters. The cattle 
trail wound for miles and miles down the slope. Venters saw 
with a rider’s keen vision ten, fifteen, twenty miles of clear 
purple sage. There were no on-coming riders or rustlers to 
aid Card. His only chance to escape lay in abandoning the 
stolen horses and creeping away in the sage to hide. In ten 
miles Wrangle could run Black Star and Night off tlieir feet. 


WRANGLE’S RACE RUN 241 

and in fifteen he could kill them outright. So Venters held the 
sorrel m, letting Card make the running. It was a long race 
that would save the blacks. 

In a few miles of that swinging canter Wrangle had crept 
appreciably closer to the three horses. Jerry Card turned again, 
and when he saw how the sorrel had gained, he put Black Star to 

a gallop. Night and Bells, on either side of him, swept into his 
stride. 


Venters loosened the rein on Wrangle and let him break into 
a gallop. The sorrel saw the horses ahead and wanted to run. 
But Venters restrained him. And in the gallop he gained more 
than in the canter. Bells was fast in that gait, but Black Star 
and Night had been trained to run. Slowly Wrangle closed the 
gap down to a quarter of a mile, and crept closer and closer. 

Jerry Card wheeled once more. Venters distinctly saw the 
red flash of his red face. This time he looked long. Venters 
laughed. He knew what passed in Card’s mind. The rider 
was trying to make out what horse it happened to be that thus 
gained on Jane Withersteen s peerless racers. Wrangle had so 
long been away from the village that not improbably Jerry had 
forgotten. Besides, whatever Jerry’s qualifications for his 
fame as the greatest rider of the sage, certain it was that his 
best point was not far-sightedness. He had not recognized 
Wrangle. After what must have been a searching gaze he got 
his comrade to face about. This action gave Venters amusement. 
It spoke so surely of the fact that neither Card nor the rustler 
actually knew their danger. Yet if they kept to the trail— and 
the last thing such men would do would be to leave it — they were 
both doomed. 

This comrade of Card’s whirled far around in his saddle, and 
he even shaded his eyes from the sun. He, too, looked long. 
Then, all at once, he faced ahead again and, bending lower in the 
saddle, began to fling his right arm up and down. That fling- 


242 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


ing Venters knew to be the lashing of Bells. Jerry also became 
active. And the three racers lengthened out into a run. 

“Now, Wrangle!” cried Venters. “Run, you big devil! 
Run!” 

Venters laid the reins on Wrangle’s neck and dropped the 
loop over the pommel. The sorrel needed no guiding on that 
smooth trail. He was surer-footed in a run than at any other 
fast gait, and his running gave the impression of something 
devilish. .He might now have been actuated by Venters’s spirit; 
undoubtedly his savage running fitted the mood of his rider. 
Venters bent forward, swinging with the horse, and gripped his 
rifle. His eye measured the distance between him and Jerry 
Card. 

In less than two miles of running Bells began to drop behind 
the blacks, and Wrangle began to overhaul him. Venters 
anticipated that the rustler would soon take to the sage. Yet 
he did not. Not improbably he reasoned that the powerful 
sorrel could more easily overtake Bells in the heavier going 
outside of the trail. Soon only a few hundred yards lay between 
Bells and Wrangle. Turning in his saddle the rustler began to 
shoot, and the bullets beat up little whiffs of dust. Venters 
raised his rifle, ready to take snap shots, and waited for favor- 
able opportunity when Bells was out of line with the forward 
horses. Venters had it in him to kill these men as if they were 
skunk-bitten coyotes, but also he had restraint enough to keep 
from shooting one of Jane’s beloved Arabians. 

No great distance was covered, however, before Bells swerved 
to the left, out of line with Black Star and Night. Then Venters, 
aiming high and waiting for the pause between Wrangle’s great 
strides, began to take snap shots at the rustler. The fleeing 
rider presented a broad target for a rifle, but he was moving 
swiftly forward and bobbing up and down. Moreover, shoot- 
ing from Wrangle’s back was shooting from a thunderbolt. 


WRANGLE’S RACE RUN 243 

And added to that was the danger of a low-placed bullet taking 
effect on Bells. Yet, despite these considerations, making the 
shot exceedingly difficult. Venters ’s confidence, like his implaca- 
bility , saw a speedy and fatal termination of that rustler’s race. 
On the sixth shot the rustler threw up his arms and took a flying 
tumble off his horse. He rolled over and over, hunched himself 
to a half -erect position, fell, and then dragged himself into the 
sage. As Venters went thundering by he peered keenly into the 
sage, but caught no sign of the man. Bells ran a few hun- 
dred yards, slowed up, and had stopped when Wrangle passed 
him. 

^ Again Venters began slipping fresh cartridges into the mag- 
azine of his rifle, and his hand was so sure and steady that he 
did not drop a single cartridge. With the eye of a rider and the 
judgment of a marksman he once more measured the distance 
between him and Jerry Card. Wrangle had gained, bringing 
him into rifle range. Venters was hard put to it now not to 
shoot, but thought it better to withhold his fire. Jerry, who, in 
anticipation of a running fusillade, had huddled himself into a 
little ball on Black Star s neck, now surmising that this pursuer 
would make sure of not wounding one of the blacks, rose to his 
natural seat in the saddle. 

In his mind perhaps, as certainly as in Venters’s, this moment 
was the beginning of the real race. 

Venters leaned forward to put his hand on Wrangle’s neck; 
then backward to put it on his flank. Under the shaggy, dusty 
hair trembled and vibrated and rippled a wonderful muscular 
activity. But Wrangle’s flesh was still cold. What a cold- 
blooded brute, thought Venters, and felt in him a love for the 
horse he had never given to any other. It would not have been 
humanly possible for any rider, even though clutched by hate or 
revenge or a passion to save a loved one or fear of his own life, 
to be astride the sorrel, to swing with his swing, to see his mag- 


244 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


nificent stride and hear the rapid thunder of his hoofs, to ride 
him in that race and not glory in the ride. 

So, with his passion to kill still keen and unabated. Venters 
lived out that ride, and drank a rider’s sage-sweet cup of wild- 
ness to the dregs. 

When Wrangle’s long mane, lashing in the wind, stung Ven- 
ters in the cheek, the sting added a beat to his flying pulse. He 
bent a downward glance to try to see Wrangle’s actual stride, 
and saw only twinkling, darting streaks and the white rush of 
the trail. He watched the sorrel’s savage head, pointed level, 
his mouth still closed and dry, but his nostrils distended as if 
he were snorting unseen fire. Wrangle was the horse for a race 
with death. Upon each side Venters saw the sage merged into 
a sailing, colorless wall. In front sloped the lay of ground with 
its purple breadth split by the white trail. The wind, blowing 
with heavy, steady blast into his face, sickened him with enduring, 
sweet odor, and filled his ears with a hollow, rushing roar. 

Then for the hundredth time he measured the width of 
space separating him from Jerry Card. Wrangle had ceased 
to gain. The blacks were proving their fleetness. Venters 
watched Jerry Card, admiring the little rider’s horsemanship. 
He had the incomparable seat of the upland rider, born in the 
saddle. It struck Venters that Card had changed his position, 
or the position of the horses. Presently Venters remembered 
positively that Jerry had been leading Night on the right-hand 
side of the trail. The racer was now on the side to the left. No 
— it was Black Star. But, Venters argued in amaze, Jerry had 
been mounted on Black Star. Another clearer, keener gaze 
assured Venters that Black Star was really riderless. Night 
now carried Jerry Card. 

“He’s changed from one to the other!” ejaculated Venters, 
realizing the astounding feat with unstinted admiration. 
“Changed at full speed! Jerry Card, that’s what you’ve done 


WRANGLE’S RACE RUN 245 

unless I’m drunk on the smell of sage. But I’ve got to see the 
trick before I believe it. ” 

Thenceforth, while Wrangle sped on, Venters glued his eyes 
to the little rider. Jerry Card rode as only he could ride. Of 
all the daring horsemen of the uplands Jerry was the one rider 
fitted to bring out the greatness of the blacks in that long race. 
He had them on a dead run, but not yet at the last strained and 
killing pace. From time to time he glanced backward, as a wise 
general in retreat calculating his chances and the power and 
speed of pursuers, and the moment for the last desperate burst. 
No doubt. Card, with his life at stake, gloried in that race, 
perhaps more wildly than Venters. For he had been born to the 
sage and the saddle and the wild. He was more than half horse. 
Not until the last call the sudden up-flashing instinct of self- 
preservation would he lose his skill and judgment and nerve and 
the spirit of that race. Venters seemed to read Jerry’s mind. 
That little crime-stained rider was actually thinking of his horses, 
husbanding their speed, handling them with knowledge of years, 
glorying in their beautiful, swift, racing stride, and wanting 
them to win the race when his own life hung suspended in quiver- 
ing balance. Again Jerry whirled in his saddle and the sun 
flashed red on his face. Turning, he drew Black Star closer and 
closer toward Night, till they ran side by side, as one horse. Then 
Card raised himself in the saddle, slipped out of the stirrups, 
and, somehow twisting himself, leaped upon Black Star. He 
did not even lose the swing of the horse. Like a leech he was 
there in the other saddle, and as the horses separated, his right 
foot, that had been apparently doubled under him, shot down to 
catch the stirrup. The grace and dexterity and daring of that 
rider’s act won something more than admiration from Venters. 

For the distance of a mile Jerry rode Black Star and then 
changed back to Night. But all Jerry’s skill and the running 
of the blacks could avail little more against the sorrel. 


246 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

Venters peered far ahead, studying the lay of the land. 
Straightaway for five miles the trail stretched, and then it dis- 
appeared in hummocky ground. To the right, some few rods. 
Venters saw a break in the sage, and this was the rim of Decep- 
tion Pass. Across the dark cleft gleamed the red of the opposite 
wall. Venters imagined that the trail went down into the pass 
somewhere north of those ridges. And he realized that he must 
and would overtake Jerry Card in this straight course of five miles. 

Cruelly he struck his spurs into Wrangle’s flanks. A light 
touch of spur was sufficient to make Wrangle plunge. And now, 
with a ringing, wild snort, he seemed to double up in muscular 
convulsions and to shoot forward with an impetus that almost 
unseated Venters. The sage blurred by, the trail flashed by, 
and the wind robbed him of breath and hearing. Jerry Card 
turned once more. And the way he shifted to Black Star showed 
he had to make his last desperate running. Venters aimed to 
the side of the trail and sent a bullet puffing the dust beyond 
Jerry. Venters hoped to frighten the rider and get him to take 
to the sager But Jerry returned the shot, and his ball struck 
dangerously close in the dust at Wrangle’s flying feet. Venters 
held his fire then, while the rider emptied his revolver. For a 
mile, with Black Star leaving Night behind and doing his utmost. 
Wrangle did not gain; for another mile he gained little, if at all. 
In the third he caught up with the now galloping Night and began 
to gain rapidly on the other black. 

Only a hundred yards now stretched between Black Star and 
Wrangle. The giant sorrel thundered on — and on — and on. 
In every yard he gained a foot. He was whistling through his 
nostrils, wringing wet, flying lather, and as hot as fire. Savage 
as ever, strong as ever, fast as ever, but each tremendous stride 
jarred Venters out of the saddle! Wrangle’s power and spirit 
and momentum had begun to run him off his legs. Wrangle’s 
great race was nearly won — and run. Venters seemed to see 


WRANGLE’S RACE RUN U7 

the expanse before him as a vast, sheeted, purple plain sliding 
under him. Black Star moved in it as a blur. The rider, Jerry 
Card, appeared a mere dot bobbing dimly. Wrangle thundered 
oil* Venters felt the increase in quivering, straining 
shock after every leap. Flecks of foam flew into Venters’s 
eyes, burning him, making him see all the sage as red. But in 
that red haze he saw, or seemed to see. Black Star suddenly 
riderless and with broken gait. Wrangle thundered on to change 
his pace with a violent break. Then Venters pulled him hard. 
From run to gallop, gallop to canter, canter to trot, trot to walk, 
and walk to stop, the great sorrel ended his race. 

Venters looked back. Black Star stood riderless in the trail. 
Jerry Card had taken to the sage. Far up the white trail Night 
came trotting faithfully down. Venters leaped off, still half 
blind, reeling dizzily. In a moment he had recovered sufiiciently 
to have a care for WTangle. Rapidly he took off the saddle and 
bridle. The sorrel was reeking, heaving, whistling, shaking. 
But he had still the strength to stand, and for him Venters had 
no fears. 

As Venters ran back to Black Star he saw the horse stagger 
on shaking legs into the sage and go down in a heap. Upon 
reaching him Venters removed the saddle and bridle. Black 
Star had been killed on his legs. Venters thought. He had no 
hope for the stricken horse. Black Star lay flat, covered with 
bloody froth, mouth wide, tongue hanging, eyes glaring, and all 
his beautiful body in convulsions. 

Unable to stay there to see Jane’s favorite racer die. Venters 
hurried up the trail to meet the other black. On the way he 
kept a sharp lookout for Jerry Card. Venters imagined the rider 
would keep well out of range of the rifle, but, as he would be 
lost on the sage without a horse, not improbably he would linger 
in the vicinity on the chance of getting back one of the blacks. 

Night soon came trotting up, hot and wet and rim out. Venters 
17 


248 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


led him down near the others, and, unsaddling him, let him loose 
to rest. Night wearily lay down in the dust and rolled, proving 
himself not yet spent. 

Then Venters sat down to rest and think. Whatever the 
risk, he was compelled to stay where he was, or comparatively 
near, for the night. The horses must rest and drink. He must 
find water. He was now seventy miles from Cottonwoods, and, 
believed, close to the canon where the cattle trail must surely 
turn off and go down into the pass. After a while he rose to 
survey the valley. 

He was very near to the ragged edge of a deep canon into 
which the trail turned. The ground lay in uneven ridges divided 
by washes, and these sloped into the canon. Following the canon 
line, he saw where its rim was broken by other intersecting 
canons, and farther down red walls and yellow cliffs leading 
toward a deep, blue cleft that he made sure was Deception Pass. 
Walking out a few rods to a promontory, he found where the trail 
went down. The descent was gradual, along a stone-walled 
trail, and Venters felt sure that this was the place where Oldring 
drove cattle into the pass. There was, however, no indication at 
all that he ever had driven cattle out at this point. Oldring 
had many holes to his burrow. 

In searching round in the little hollows Venters, much to his 
relief, found water. He composed himself to rest and eat some 
bread and meat, while he waited for a sufficient time to elapse 
so that he could safely give the horses a drink. He judged the 
hour to be somewhere around noon. Wrangle lay down to rest 
and Night followed suit. So long as they were down Venters 
intended to make no move. The longer they rested the better, 
and the safer it would be to give them water. By and by he 
forced himself to go over to where Black Star lay, expecting to 
find him dead. Instead he found the racer partially if not 
wholly recovered. There was recognition, even fire, in his big 


WRANGLE’S RACE RUN 249 

black eyes. Venters was overjoyed. He sat by the black 
tor a long time. Black Star presently labored to his feet with 
a heave and a groan, shook himself, and snorted for water. 
Venters repaired to the little pool he had found, filled his sombrero, 
and gave the racer a drink. Black Star gulped it at one draught, 
as if it were but a drop, and pushed his nose into the hat and 
snorted for more. Venters now led Night down to drink, and 
after a further time Black Star also. Then the blacks began to 
graze. 

The sorrel had wandered off down the sage between the trail 
and the canon. Once or twice he disappeared in little swales. 
Finally Venters concluded Wrangle had grazed far enough, and, 
taking his lasso, he went to fetch him back. In crossing from 
one ridge to another he saw where the horse had made muddy a 
pool of water. It occurred to Venters then that Wrangle had 
drunk his fill, and did not seem the worse for it, and might be 
anything but easy to catch. And, true enough, he could not 
come within roping reach of the sorrel. He tried for an hour, 
and gave up in disgust. Wrangle did not seem so wild as simply 
perverse. In a quandary Venters returned to the other horses, 
hoping much, yet doubting more, that when Wrangle had grazed 
to suit himself he might be caught. 

As the afternoon wore away Venters’s concern diminished, 
yet he kept close watch on the blacks and the trail and the sage. 
There was no telling of what Jerry Card might be capable. 
Venters sullenly acquiesced to the idea that the rider had been 
too quick and too shrewd for him. Strangely and doggedly, 
however. Venters clung to his foreboding of Card’s downfall. 

The wind died away; the red sun topped the far distant 
western rise of slope; and the long, creeping purple shadows 
lengthened. The rims of the canons gleamed crimson, and the 
deep clefts appeared to belch forth blue smoke. Silence enfolded 
the scene. 


250 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


It was broken by a horrid, long-drawn scream of a horse and 
the thudding of heavy hoofs. Venters sprang erect and wheeled 
south. Along the canon rim, near the edge, came Wrangle once 
more in thundering flight. 

Venters gasped in amazement. Had the wild sorrel gone 
mad? His head was high and twisted, in a most singular position 
for a running horse. Suddenly Venters descried a frog-like 
shape clinging to Wrangle’s neck. Jerry Card! Somehow he had 
straddled Wrangle and now stuck like a huge burr. But it was 
his strange position and the sorrel’s wild scream that shook 
Venters ’s nerves. Wrangle was pounding toward the turn 
where the trail went down. He plunged onward like a blind 
horse. More than one of his leaps took him to the very edge 
of the precipice. 

Jerry Card was bent forward with his teeth fast in the front 
of Wrangle’s nose! Venters saw it, and there flashed over him 
a memory of this trick of a few desperate riders. He even 
thought of one rider who had worn off his teeth in this terrible 
hold to break or control desperate horses. Wrangle had indeed 
gone mad. The marvel was what guided him. Was it the half- 
brute, the more than half-horse instinct of Jerry Card? What- 
ever the mystery, it was true. And in a few more rods Jerry 
would have the sorrel turning into the trail leading down into 
the canon. 

‘‘No — ^Jerry!” whispered Venters, stepping forward and 
throwing up the rifle. He tried to catch the little humped, 
frog-like shape over the sights. It was moving too fast; it was 
too small. Yet Venters shot once . . . twice . . . the third 
time . . . four times . . . flve! All wasted shots and precious 
seconds ! 

With a deep-muttered curse Venters caught Wrangle through 
the sights and pulled the trigger. Plainly he heard the bullet 
thud. Wrangle uttered a horrible strangling sound. In swift 


WRANGLE’S RACE RUN 251 

death action he whirled, and with one last splendid leap he cleared 
the canon rim. And he whirled downward with the little frog- 
like shape clinging to his neck. 

There was a pause which seemed never ending, a shock, 
and an instant’s silence. 

Then up rolled a heavy crash, a long roar of sliding rocks 
dying away in distant echo, then silence unbroken. 

Wrangle’s race was run. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


oldking’s knell 

S OME forty hours or more later Venters created a commo- 
tion in Cottonwoods by riding down the main street on 
Black Star and leading Bells and Night. He had come upon 
Bells grazing near the body of a dead rustler, the only incident 
of his quick ride into the village. 

Nothing was farther from Venters’s mind than bravado. No 
thought came to him of the defiance and boldness of riding 
Jane Withersteen’s racers straight into the arch-plotter’s 
stronghold. He wanted men to see the famous Arabians; he 
wanted men to see them dirty and dusty, bearing all the signs 
of having been driven to their limit; he wanted men to see and to 
know that the thieves who had ridden them out into the sage 
had not ridden them back. Venters had come for that and for 
more — he wanted to meet Tull face to face; if not Tull, then 
Dyer; if not Dyer, then any one in the secret of these master 
conspirators. Such was Venters’s passion. The meeting with 
the rustlers, the unprovoked attack upon him, the spilling of 
blood, the recognition of Jerry Card and the horses, the race, 
and that last plunge of mad Wrangle — all these things, fuel on 
fuel to the smoldering fire, had kindled and swelled and leaped 
into living flame. He could have shot Dyer in the midst of his 
religious services at the altar; he could have killed Tull in front 
of wives and babes. 

He walked the three racers down the broad, green-bordered 
village road. He heard the murmur of running water from 


OLDRING’S KNELL 253 

Amber Spring. Bitter waters for Jane Withersteen! Men 
and women stopped to gaze at him and the horses. All knew 
him; all knew the blacks and the bay. As well as if it had been 
spoken. Venters read in the faces of men the intelligence that 
Jane Withersteen’s Arabians had been known to have been 
stolen. Venters reined in and halted before Dyer^s residence. 
It was a low, long, stone structure resembling Withersteen House. 
The spacious front yard was green and luxuriant with grass 
and flowers; gravel walks led to the huge porch; a well-trimmed 
hedge of purple sage separated the yard from the church grounds; 
birds sang in the trees; water flowed musically along the walks; 
and there were glad, careless shouts of children. For Venters 
the beauty of this home, and the serenity and its apparent 
happiness, all turned red and black. For Venters a shade over- 
spread the lawn, the flowers, the old vine-clad stone house. In 
the music of the singing birds, in the murmur of the running 
water, he heard an ominous sound. Quiet beauty — sweet music 
— innocent laughter! By what monstrous abortion of fate did 
these abide in the shadow of Dyer? 

Venters rode on and stopped before Tull’s cottage. Women 
stared at him with white faces and then flew from the porch. 
Tull himself appeared at the door, bent low, craning his neck. 
His dark face flashed out of sight; the door banged; a heavy bar 
dropped with a hollow sound. 

Then Venters shook Black Star’s bridle, and, sharply trotting, 
led the other horses to the center of the village. Here at the 
intersecting streets and in front of the stores he halted once more. 
The usual lounging atmosphere of that prominent corner was 
not now in evidence. Riders and ranchers and villagers broke 
up what must have been absorbing conversation. There was a 
rush of many feet, and then the walk was lined with faces. 

Venters’s glance swept down the line of silent stone-faced 
men. He recognized many riders and villagers, but none of 


254 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


those he had hoped to meet. There was no expression in the 
faces turned toward him. All of them knew him, most were 
inimical, but there were few who were not burning with curi- 
osity and wonder in regard to the return of Jane Withersteen’s 
racers. Yet all were silent. Here were the familiar character- 
istics — masked feeling — strange secretiveness — expressionless ex- 
pression of mystery and hidden power. 

“Has anybody here seen Jerry Card?” queried Venters, in 
a loud voice. 

In reply there came not a word, not a nod or shake of head, 
not so much as dropping eye or twitching lip — nothing but a 
quiet, stony stare. 

“Been under the knife? You’ve a fine knife-wielder here — 
one Tull, I believe! . . . Maybe you’ve all had your tongues 
cut out?” 

This passionate sarcasm of Venters brought no response; 
and the stony calm was as oil on the fire within him. 

I see some of you pack guns, too!” he added, in biting scorn. 
In the long, tense pause, strung keenly as a tight wire, he sat 
motionless on Black Star. “All right,” he went on. “Then 
let some of you take this message to Tull. Tell him I’ve seen 
Jerry Card! . . . Tell him Jerry Card will never return!’^ 

Thereupon, in the same dead calm, Venters backed 
Black Star away from the curb, into the street, and out of range. 
He was ready now to ride up to Withersteen House and turn the 
racers over to Jane. 

Hello, Venters, a familiar voice cried hoarsely, and he saw 
a man running toward him. It was the rider Judkins who came 
up and giipped Venters s hand. Venters, I could hev dropped 
when I seen them bosses. But thet sight ain’t a marker to the 
looks of you. What’s wrong? Hev you gone crazy? You 
must be crazy to ride in here this way— with them bosses— talkin ’ 
thet way about Tull an ’ Jerry Card. ” 


OLDRING’S KNELL 


“Jud, I’m not crazy— only mad clean 
Venters. 


through,” 


255 

replied 


Wal, now, Bern, I’m glad to hear some of your old self 
m your voice. Fer when you come up you looked like the corpse 
of a dead rider with fire fer eyes. You hed thet crowd too stiff 
fer throwm guns. Come, we’ve got to hev a talk. Let’s go 
up the lane. We ain’t much safe here.” 

Judkins mounted Bells and rode with Venters up to the 
dismounted and went among the 


“Let’s hear from you first,” said Judkins. “You fetched 
back them bosses. Thet is the trick. An’, of course, you got 
Jerry the same as you got Horne.” 

“Horne!” 

^“Sure He was found dead yesterday all chewed by coyotes, 
an he d been shot plumb center. ” 

“Where was he found.?^” 

“At the split down the trail— you know where Oldrin’s cattle 
trail runs off north from the trail to the pass.” 

“That’s where I met Jerry and the rustlers. What was 
Horne doing with them? I thought Horne was an honest cattle- 
man. ” 

“Lord— Bern, don’t ask me thet! I’m all muddled now 
tryin’ to figure things.’’ 

Venters told of the ight and the race with Jerry Card and its 
tragic conclusion. 

“I laiowed it! I knowed all along that Wrangle was the 
best boss! exclaimed Judkins, with his lean face working and 
his eyes lighting. “Thet was a race! Lord, I ’d like to hev seen 
Wrangle jump the cliff with Jerry. An’ thet was good-by to the 
grandest boss an’ rider ever on the sage! . . . But, Bern, after 
you got the bosses why’d you want to bolt right in Tull’s face?” 

“I want him to know. An’ if I can get to him I’ll—” 


256 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


“You can’t get near Tull,” interrupted Judkins. “Thet 
vigilante bunch hev takin’ to bein’ bodyguard for Tull an’ 
Dyer, too.” 

“Hasn’t Lassiter made a break yet?” inquired Venters, 
curiously. 

“Naw!” replied Judkins, scornfully. “Jane turned his head. 
He’s mad in love over her — f oilers her like a dog. He ain’t no 
more Lassiter! He’s lost his nerve; he doesn’t look like the same 
feller. It’s village talk. Everybody knows it. He hasn’t 
thrown a gun, an’ he won’t — ” 

“Jud, I’ll bet he does,” replied Venters, earnestly. “Re- 
member what I say. This Lassiter is something more than a 
gun-man. Jud, he’s big — he’s great! ... I feel that in him. 
God help Tull and Dyer when Lassiter does go after them. For 
horses and riders and stone walls won’t save them.” 

“Wal, hev it your way, Bern. I hope you ’re right. Nat’rully 
I’ve been some sore on Lassiter fer gittin’ soft. But I ain’t 
denyin’ his nerve, or whatever ’s great in him thet sort of par- 
alyzes people. No later ’n this mornin’ I seen him saunterin’ 
down the lane, quiet an’ slow. An’ like his gims he comes 
black — black, thet’s Lassiter. Wal, the crowd on the corner 
never batted an eye, an’ I’ll gamble my boss thet there wasn’t 
one who hed a heartbeat till Lassiter got by. He went in Snell’s 
saloon, an’ as there wasn’t no gun play I had to go in, too. An’ 
there, darn my pictures, if Lassiter wasn’t standin’ to the bar, 
drinkin’ an’ talkin’ with Oldrin’.” 

^'Oldring!’' whispered Venters. His voice, as all fire and 
pulse within him, seemed to freeze. 

“Let go my arm ! ” exclaimed Judkins. “ Thet ’s my bad arm. 
Sure it was Oldrin’. What the hell’s wrong with you, anyway? 
Venters, I tell you somethin’s wrong. You’re whiter ’n a sheet. 
You can’t be scared of the rustler. I don’t believe you’ve 
got a scare in you. Wal, now, jest let me talk. You know I 


OLDRING’S KNELL 257 

like to talk, an ’ if I ’m slow I alius git there sometime. As I said, 
Lassiter was talkin chummy with Oldrin’. There wasn’t no 
hard feelin’s. An’ the gang wasn’t payin’ no pertic’lar atten- 
tion. But like a cat watchin’ a mouse I had my eyes on them 
two fellers. It was strange to me, thet confab. I’m gittin’ to 
think a lot fer a feller who doesn’t know much. There ’d been 
some queer deals lately an’ this seemed to me the queerest. 
These men stood to the bar alone, an’ so close their big gun- 
hilts butted together. I seen Oldrin’ was some surprised at 
first, an’ Lassiter was cool as ice. They talked an’ presently at 
somethin’ Lassiter said the rustler bawled out a curse, an’ then 
he jest fell up against the bar, an’ sagged there. The gang in 
the saloon looked around an’ laughed, an’ thet’s about all. 
Finally Oldrin’ turned, and it was easy to see somethin’ hed 
shook him. Yes sir, thet big rustler — you know he’s as broad 
as he is long, an’ the powerfulest build of a man — yes, sir, the 
nerve had been taken out of him. Then, after a little, he began 
to talk, an’ said a lot to Lassiter, an’ by an’ by it didn’t take 
much of an eye to see thet Lassiter was gittin ’ hit hard. I never 
seen him anyway but cooler ’n ice — till then. He seemed to be 
hit harder ’n Oldrin’, only he didn’t roar out thet way. He 
jest kind of sunk in, an’ looked an’ looked, an’ he didn’t see a 
livin’ soul in thet saloon. Then he sort of come to, an’ shakin’ 
hands — mind you, shaJcin’ hands with Oldrin’ — he went out. I 
couldn’t help thinkin’ how easy even a boy could hev dropped 
the great gun-man then! . . . Wal, the rustler stood at the 
bar fer a long time, an’ he was seein’ things far off, too; then 
he come to an’ roared fer whisky, an’ gulped a drink thet was 
big enough to drown me.” 

“Is Oldring here now.^” whispered Venters. He could not 
speak above a whisper. Judkins’s story had been meaningless 
to him. 

“He’s at Snell’s yet. Bern, I hevn’t told you yet thet the 


258 


EIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


rustlers hev been raisin’ hell. They shot up Stone Bridge an’ 
Glaze, an ’ f er three days they ’ve been here drinkin ’ an ’ gamblin ’ 
an’ thro win’ of gold. These rustlers hev a pile of gold. If 
it was gold dust or nugget gold I’d hev reason to think, but it’s 
new coin gold, as if it had jest come from the United States treas- 
ury. An’ the coin’s genuine. Thet’s all been proved. The 
truth is Oldrin ’s on a rampage. A while back he lost his Masked 
Rider, an’ they say he’s wild about thet. I’m wonderin’ if 
Lassiter could hev told the rustler anythin’ about thet little 
masked, hard-ridin’ devil. Ride! He was ’most as good as 
Jerry Card. An’, Bern, I’ve been wonderin’ if you know — ” 

‘"Judkins, you’re a good fellow,” interrupted Venters. “Some 
day I’ll tell you a story. I’ve no time now. Take the horses 
to Jane.” 

Judkins stared, and then, muttering to himself, he mounted 
Bells, and stared again at Venters, and then, leading the other 
horses, he rode into the grove and disappeared. 

Once, long before, on the night Venters had carried Bess 
through the canon and up into Surprise Valley, he had experienced 
the strangeness of faculties singularly, tinglingly acute. And 
now the same sensation recurred. But it was different in that 
he felt cold, frozen, mechanical, incapable of free thought, and 
all about him seemed unreal, aloof, remote. He hid his rifle in 
the sage, marking its exact location with extreme care. Then 
he faced down the lane and strode toward the center of the village. 
Perceptions flashed upon him, the faint, cold touch of the breeze, 
a cold, silvery tinkle of flowing water, a cold sun shining out of a 
clear sky, song of birds and laugh of children, coldly distant. 
Cold and intangible were all things in earth and heaven. Colder 
and tighter stretched the skin over his face; colder and harder 
grew the polished butts of his guns; colder and steadier became 
his hands, as he wiped the clammy sweat from his face or reached 
low to his gun-sheaths. Men meeting him in the walk gave him 


OLDRING’S KNELL 259 

wide berth. In front of Bevin’s store a crowd melted apart 
or IS passage, and their faces and whispers were faces and 
whispers of a dream. He turned a corner to meet Tull face to 
face, eye to eye. As once before he had seen this man pale to 
a ghastly livid white, so again he saw the change, Tull stopped in 
his tracks, with right hand raised and shaking. Suddenly it 
dropped and he seemed to glide aside, to pass out of Venters’s 
sight. Next he saw many horses with bridles down— all clean- 
limbed, dark bays or blacks— rustlers’ horses! Loud voices 
and boisterous laughter, rattle of dice and scrape of chair and 
clmk of gold, burst in mingled din from an open doorway. He 
stepped inside. 

Witli the sight of smoke-hazed room and drinking, cursing, 
gambling, dark-visaged men, reality once more dawned upon 
Venters. 

His entrance had been unnoticed, and he bent his gaze upon 
the drinkers at the bar. Dark-clothed, dark-faced men they all 
were, burned by the sun, bow-legged as were most riders of the 
sage, but neither lean nor gaunt. Then Venters’s gaze passed 
to the tables, and swiftly it swept over the hard-featured game- 
sters, to alight upon the huge, shaggy, black head of the rustler- 
chief. 

"yidring!’^ he cried, and to him his voice seemed to split a 
bell in his ears. 

It stilled the din. 

That silence suddenly broke to the scrape and crash of Old- 
ring s chair as he rose 5 and then, while he passed, a great gloomy 
figure, again the thronged room stilled in silence yet deeper. 

“Oldring, a word with you!” continued Venters. 

Ho! What s this.^” boomed Oldring, in frowning scrutiny. 

“Come outside, alone. A word for you — -from your Mashed 
Rider! ” 

Oldring kicked a chair out of his way and lunged forward 


260 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

with a stamp of heavy boot that jarred the floor. He waved 
down his muttering, rising men. 

Venters backed out of the door and waited, hearing, as no 
sound had ever before struck into his soul, the rapid, heavy 
steps of the rustler. 

Oldring appeared, and Venters had one glimpse of his great 
breadth and bulk, his gold-buckled belt with hanging guns, 
his high-top boots with gold spurs. In that moment Venters 
had a strange, unintelligible curiosity to see Oldring alive. The 
rustler’s broad brow, his large black eyes, his sweeping beard, 
as dark as the wing of a raven, his enormous width of shoulder 
and depth of chest, his whole splendid presence so wonderfully 
charged with vitality and force and strength, seemed to afford 
Venters an unutterable fiendish joy because for that magnificent 
manhood and life he meant cold and sudden death. 

'^Oldring, Bess is alive! But she's dead to you — dead to the 
life you made her lead — dead as you will he in one second!" 

Swift as lightning Venters’s glance dropped from Oldring’s 
rolling eyes to his hands. One of them, the right, swept out, 
then toward his gun — and Venters shot him through the heart. 

Slowly Oldring sank to his knees, and the hand, dragging 
at the gun, fell away. Venters’s strangely acute faculties 
grasped the meaning of that limp arm, of the swaying hulk, of 
the gasp and heave, of the quivering beard. But was that awful 
spirit in the black eyes only one of vitality? 

“ikfan — why — didn't — you — wait! Bess — was — ” Oldring’s 
whisper died imder his beard, and, with a heavy lurch, he fell 
forward. 

Bounding swiftly away. Venters fled around the comer, 
across the street, and, leaping a hedge, he ran through yard, 
orchard, and garden to the sage. Here, under cover of the tall 
brush, he turned west and ran on to the place where he had hidden 
his rifle. Securing that, he again set out into a run, and, circling 



AND VENTERS SHOT HIM TFTfOUGH THE HEART 



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OLDRING’S KNELL 


261 


tlirough the sage, came up behind Jane WithersteenV stable 
and corrals. With laboring, dripping chest and pain as of a 
nite thrust m his side, he stopped to regain his breath, and 
while resting, his eyes roved around in search of a horse. Doors 
and windows of the stable were open wide and had a deserted 
look. One dejected, lonely burro stood in the near corral, 
btrange mdeed was the silence brooding over the once happy, 
noisy home of Jane Withersteen’s pets. 

He went into the corral, exercising care to leave no tracks, 
and ed the burro to the watering trough. Venters, though 
not thirsty, drank till he could drink no more. Then, leading 
the burro over hard ground, he struck into the sage and down the 
slope. 


He strode swiftly, turning from time to time to scan the slope 
or riders. His head j’ust topped the level of sage-brush, and the 
burro could not have been seen at all. Slowly the green of Cotton- 
woods sank behind the slope, and at last a wavering line of 
purple sage met the blue of sky. 

To avoid being seen, to get away, to hide his trail — these 
were the sole ideas in his mind as he headed for Deception Pass; 
and he directed all his acuteness of eye and ear, and the keenness 
of^ a rider s judgment for distance and ground, to stem accom- 
plishment of the task. He kept to the sage far to the left of 
the trail leading into the pass. He walked ten miles and looked 
back a thousand times. Always the graceful, purple wave of 
sage remained wide and lonely, a clear, undotted waste. Coming 
to a stretch of rocky ground, he took advantage of it to cross 
the trail and then continued down on the right. At length he 
persuaded himself that he would be able to see riders mounted 
on horses before they could see him on the little burro, and he 
rode bareback. 

Hour by hour the tireless burro kept to his faithful, steady 
trot. The sun sank, and the long shadows lengthened down the 


262 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


slope. Moving veils of purple twilight crept out of the hollows 
and, mustering and forming on the levels, soon merged and 
shaded into night. Venters guided the burro nearer to the trail, 
so that he could see its white line from the ridges, and rode on 
through the hours. 

Once down in the pass without leaving a trail, he would 
hold himself safe for the time being. When late in the night 
he reached the break in the sage, he sent the burro down ahead 
of him, and started an avalanche that all but buried the animal 
at the bottom of the trail. Bruised and battered as he was, he 
had a moment’s elation, for he had hidden his tracks. Once 
more he mounted the burro and rode on. The hour w^as the 
blackest of the night when he made the thicket which inclosed 
his old camp. Here he turned the burro loose in the grass near 
the spring, and then lay down on his old bed of leaves. 

He felt only vaguely, as outside things, the ache and burn 
and throb of the muscles of his body. But a dammed-up torrent 
of emotion at last burst its bounds, and the hour that saw his 
release from immediate action was one that confounded him in 
the reaction of his spirit. He suffered without understanding 
why. He caught glimpses into himself, into unlit darkness of 
soul. The fire that had blistered him and the cold which had 
frozen him now united in one torturing possession of his min d 
and heart, and like a fiery steed with ice-shod feet, ranged his 
being, ran rioting through his blood, trampling the resurging 
good, dragging ever at the evil. 

Out of the subsiding chaos came clear question. What had 
happened.^ He had left the valley to go to Cottonwoods. Why? 
It seemed that he had gone to kill a man — Oldring! The name 
riveted his consciousness upon the one man of all men upon 
earth whom he had wanted to meet. He had met the rustler. 
Venters recalled the smoky haze of the saloon, the dark-visaged 
men, the huge Oldring. He saw him step out of the door, a 


OLDRING’S KNELL 263 

splendid specimen of manhood, a handsome giant with purple- 
black and sweeping beard. He remembered inquisitive gaze of 
falcon eyes. He heard himself repeating: ^'Oldring, Bess is 
alive! But she^s dead to you/* and he felt himself jerk, and his 
ears throbbed to the thunder of a gun, and he saw the giant 
sink slowly to his knees. Was that only the vitality of him — 
that awful light in the eyes— only the hard-dying life of a tre- 
mendously powerful brute? A broken whisper, strange as 
death: “ikfan — why — didn*t — you — wait! Bess — was — ** And 
Oldring plunged face forward, dead. 

“I killed him,” cried Venters, in remembering shock. “But 
it wasn’t that. Ah, the look in his eyes and his whisper!” 

Herein lay the secret that had clamored to him through all 
the tumult and stress of his emotions. What a look in the 
eyes of a man shot through the heart! It had been neither 
hate nor ferocity nor fear of men nor fear of death. It had been 
no passionate, glinting spirit of a fearless foe, willing shot for 
shot, life for life, but lacking physical power. Distinctly re- 
called now, never to be forgotten. Venters saw in Oldring’s 
magnificent eyes the rolling of great, glad surprise— softness- 
love! Then came a shadow and the terrible superhuman striv- 
ing of his spirit to speak. Oldring, shot through the heart, had 
fought and forced back death, not for a moment in which to shoot 
or curse, but to whisper strange words. 

What words for a dying man to whisper! Why had not 
Venters waited? For what? That was no plea for life. It 
was regret that there was not a moment of life left in which to 
speak. Bess was — Herein lay renewed torture for Venters. 
What had Bess been to Oldring? The old question, like a spec- 
ter, stalked from its grave to haunt him. He had overlooked, 
he had forgiven, he had loved, and he had forgotten; and now, 
out of the mystery of a dying man’s whisper, rose again that 
perverse, unsatisfied, jealous uncertainty. Bess had loved that 


264 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


splendid, black-crowned giant — by her own confession she had 
loved him; and in Venters’s soul again flamed up the jealous 
hell. Then into the clamoring hell burst the shot that had killed 
Oldring, and it rang in a wild, fiendish gladness, a hateful, venge- 
ful joy. That passed to the memory of the love and light in 
Oldring ’s eyes and the mystery in his whisper. So the changing, 
swaying emotions fluctuated in Venters’s heart. 

This was the climax of his year of suffering and the crucial 
struggle of his life. And when the gray dawn came he rose, a 
gloomy, almost heartbroken man, but victor over evil passions. 
He could not change the past; and, even if he had not loved Bess 
with all his soul, he had grown into a man who would not change 
the future he had planned for her. Only, and once for all, he 
must know the truth, know the worst, stifle all these insistent 
doubts and subtle hopes and jealous fancies, and kill the past 
by knowing truly what Bess had been to Oldring. For that 
matter he knew — ^he had always known, but he must hear it 
spoken. Then, when they had safely gotten out of that wild 
country to take up a new and an absorbing life, she would for- 
get, she would be happy, and through that, in the years to come, 
he could not but find life worth living. 

All day he rode slowly and cautiously up the pass, taking 
time to peer around corners, to pick out hard ground and grassy 
patches, and to make sure there was no one in pursuit. In the 
night sometime he came to the smooth, scrawled rocks dividing 
the valley, and here set the burro at liberty. He walked beyond, 
climbed the slope and the dim, starlit gorge. Then, weary to 
the point of exhaustion, he crept into a shallow cave and fell 
asleep. 

In the morning, when he descended the trail, he found the 
sun was pouring a golden stream of light through the arch of 
the great stone bridge. Surprise Valley, like a valley of dreams, 
lay mystically soft and beautiful, awakening to the golden 


OLDRING’S KNELL 265 

flood which _ was rolling away its slumberous bands of mist, 
brightening its walled faces. 

While yet far off he discerned Bess moving under the silver 
spruces, and soon the barking of the dogs told him that they had 
seen him. He heard the mocking-birds singing in the trees, 
and then the twittering of the quail. Ring and Whitie came 
bounding toward him, and behind them ran Bess, her hands 
outstretched. 

Bern! You re back! You’re back!” she cried, in a joy 
that rang of her loneliness. 

Yes, I m back, he said, as she rushed to meet him. 

She had reached out for him when suddenly, as she saw him 
closely, something checked her, and as quickly all her joy fled 
and with it her color, leaving her pale and trembling. 

“Oh! What’s happened?” 

“A good deal has happened, Bess. I don’t need to tell you 
what. And I m played out. Worn out in mind more than 
body.” 

“Dear — you look strange to me!” faltered Bess. 

“Never mind that. I’m all right. There’s nothing for you 
to be scared about. Things are going to turn out just as we have 
planned. As soon as I’m rested we’ll make a break to get out 
of the country. Only now, right now, I must know the truth 
about you. ” 

“Truth about me?” echoed Bess, shrinkingly. She seemed 
to be casting back into her mind for a forgotten key. Venters 
himself, as he saw her, received a pang. 

“Yes — the truth. Bess, don’t misunderstand, I haven’t 
changed that way. I love you still. I’ll love you more after- 
ward. Life will be just as sweet — sweeter to us. We’ll be — be 
married as soon as ever we can. We’ll be happy — but there’s 
a devil in me. A perverse, jealous devil! Then I’ve queer 
fancies. I forgot for a long time. Now all those fiendish little 


266 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


whispers of doubt and faith and fear and hope come torturing 
me again. I ’ve got to kill them with the truth. ” 

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” she replied, 
frankly. 

“Then, by Heaven, we’ll have it over and done with! • . • 
Bess — did Oldring love you?” 

“Certainly he did.” 

“Did — did you love him?” 

“Of course. I told you so.” 

“How can you tell it so lightly?” cried Venters, passionately. 
“Haven’t you any sense of — of — ” He choked back speech. 
He felt the rush of pain and passion. He seized her in rude, 
strong hands and drew her close. He looked straight into her 
dark-blue eyes. They were shadowing with the old wistful light, 
but they were as clear as the limpid water of the spring. They 
were earnest, solemn in unutterable love and faith and abnega- 
tion. Venters shivered. He knew he was looking into her soul. 
He knew she could not lie in that moment; but that she might 
tell the truth, looking at him with those eyes, almost killed his 
belief in purity. 

“What are — what were you to — to Oldring?” he panted, 
fiercely. 

“I am his daughter,” she replied, instantly. 

Venters slowly let go of her. There was a violent break in 
the force of his feeling — then creeping blankness. 

“What — was it — you said?” he asked, in a kind of dull 
wonder. 

“I am his daughter.” 

“Oldring’s daughter?” queried Venters, with life gathering 
in his voice. 

“Yes.” 

With a passionately awakening start he grasped her hands 
and drew her close. 


OLDRING’S KNELL 


267 


JAll the time — you’ve been Oldring’s daughter?” 

Yes, of course all the time — always.” 

But, Bess, you told me — you let me think — I made out 
you were — a — so — so ashamed.” 

It is my shame,” she said, with voiee deep and full, and 
now the scarlet fired her cheek. “I told you— I’m nothing— 
nameless — just Bess, Oldring’s girl!” 

“I know— I remember. But I never thought—” he went 
on, hurriedly, huskily. “That time— when you lay dying— you 
prayed— you— somehow I got the idea you were bad.” 

“Bad?” she asked, with a little laugh. 

She looked up with a faint smile of bewilderment and the ab- 
solute unconsciousness of a child. Venters gasped in the gather- 
ing might of the truth. She did not understand his meaning. 

Bess! Bess!” He clasped her in his arms, hiding her eyes 
against his breast. She must not see his face in that moment. 
And he held her while he looked out across the valley. In his 
dim and blinded sight, in the blur of golden light and moving 
mist, he saw Oldring. She was the rustler’s nameless daughter. 
Oldring had loved her. He had so guarded her, so kept her from 
women and men and knowledge of life that her mind was as a 
child’s. That was part of the secret— part of the mystery. 
That was the wonderful truth. Not only was she not bad, but 
good, pure, innocent above all innocence in the world — the 
innocence of lonely girlhood. 

He saw Oldring’s magnificent eyes, inquisitive, searching — 
softening. He saw them flare in amaze, in gladness, with love, 
then suddenly strain in terrible effort of will. He heard Oldring 
whisper and saw him sway like a log and fall. Then a million 
bellowing, thundering voices — gunshots of conscience, thunder- 
bolts of remorse — dinned horribly in his ears. He had killed 
Bess’s father. Then a rushing wind filled his ears like the 
moan of wind in the cliffs, a knell indeed — Oldring’s knell. 


268 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


He dropped to his knees and hid his face against Bess, and 
grasped her with the hands of a drowning man. 

“My God! . . . My God! . . . Oh, Bess! . . . Forgive me! 
Never mind what I’ve done — what I’ve thought. But forgive 
me. I’ll give you my life. I’ll live for you. I’ll love you. 
Oh, I do love you as no man ever loved a woman. I want you 
to know — to remember that I fought a fight for you — however 
blind I was. I thought — I thought — ^never mind what I thought 
— but I loved you — I asked you to marry me. Let that — let 
me have that to hug to my heart. Oh, Bess, I was driven! And 
I might have known! I could not rest nor sleep till I had this 
mystery solved. God, how things work out!” 

“Bern, you’re weak — trembling — you talk wildly,” cried 
Bess. “You’ve overdone your strength. There’s nothing 
to forgive. There’s no mystery except your love for me. You 
have come back to me!” 

And she clasped his head tenderly in her arms and pressed it 
closely to her throbbing breast. 


CHAPTER XIX 


PAY 

A t the home of Jane Withersteen little Fay was climbing 
Lassiter’s knee. 

“Does 00 love me?” she asked. 

Lassiter, who was as serious with Fay as he was gentle and 
loving, assured her in earnest and elaborate speech that he was 
her devoted subject. Fay looked thoughtful and appeared to 
be debating the duplicity of men or searching for a supreme 
test to prove this cavalier. 

“Does 00 love my new muvver?” she asked, with bewildering 
suddenness. 

Jane Withersteen laughed, and for the first time in many a day 
she felt a stir of her pulse and warmth in her cheek. 

It was a still, drowsy summer afternoon, and the three 
were sitting in the shade of the wooded knoll that faced the 
sage-slope. Little Fay’s brief spell of unhappy longing for her 
mother— the childish, mystic gloom — had passed, and now where 
Fay was there were prattle and laughter and glee. She had 
emerged from sorrow to be the incarnation of joy and loveliness. 
She had grown supernaturally sweet and beautiful. For Jane 
Withersteen the child was an answer to prayer, a blessing, a 
possession infinitely more precious than all she had lost. For 
Lassiter, Jane divined that little Fay had become a religion. 
“Does oo love my new muvver?” repeated Fay. 

Lassiter’s answer to this was a modest and sincere affirmative. 


270 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

"‘Why don’t oo marry my new muwer an’ be my favver?” 

Of the thousands of questions put by little Fay to Lassiter 
that was the first he had been unable to answer. 

“Fay — ^Fay, don’t ask questions like that,” said Jane. 

“Why?” 

Because,” replied Jane. And she found it strangely em- 
barrassing to meet the child’s gaze. It seemed to her that Fay’s 
violet eyes looked through her with piercing wisdom. 

“Oo love him, don’t oo?” 

“Dear child— run and play,” said Jane; “but don’t go too 
far. Don’t go from this little hill.” 

Fay pranced off wildly, joyous over freedom that had not 
been granted her for weeks. 

“Jane, why are children more sincere than grown-up persons? ” 
asked Lassiter. 

“Are they?” 

I reckon so. Little Fay there — she sees things as they 
appear on the face. An Indian does that. So does a dog. An’ 
an Indian an’ a dog are most of the time right in what they see. 
Mebbe a child is always right. ” 

“Well, what does Fay see?” asked Jane. 

I reckon you know. I wonder what goes on in Fay’s mind 
when she sees part of the truth with the wise eyes of a child, an’ 
wantin’ to know more, meets with strange falseness from you? 
Wait! You are false in a way, though you’re the best woman 
I ever knew. What I want to say is this. Fay has taken you’re 
pretendin’ to— to care for me for the thing it looks on the face. 
An’ her little formin’ mind asks questions. An’ the answers 
she gets are different from the looks of things. So she’ll grow up, 
gradually takin on that falseness, an’ be like the rest of women, 
an’ men, too. An’ the truth of this falseness to life is proved by 
your appearin’ to love me when you don’t. Things aren’t 
what they seem.” 


FAY 


271 

“Lassiter, you’re right. A child should be told the absolute 
truth. But— is that possible? I haven’t been able to do it, and 
all my life I ve loved the truth, and I’ve prided myself upon 
being truthful. Maybe that was only egotism. I’m learning 
much, my friend. Some of those blinding scales have fallen from 
my eyes. And — and as to caring for you, I think I care a great 
deal. How much, how little, I couldn’t say. My heart is 
almost broken, Lassiter. So now is not a good time to judge of 
affection. I can still play and be merry with Fay. I can still 
dream. But when I attempt serious thought I’m dazed. I 
don’t think. I don’t care any more. I don’t pray! . . . Think 
of that, my friend! But in spite of my numb feeling I believe 
I’ll rise out of all this dark agony a better woman, with greater 
love of man and God. I’m on the rack now; I’m senseless to all 
but pain, and growing dead to that. Sooner or later I shall rise 
out of this stupor. I’m waiting the hour.” 

“It ’ll soon come, Jane,” replied Lassiter, soberly. “Then 
I’m afraid for you. Years are terrible things, an’ for years 
you’ve been bound. Habit of years is strong as life itself. 
Somehow, though, I believe as you — that you’ll come out of it 
all a finer woman. I’m waitin’, too. An’ I’m wonderin’ — I 
reckon, Jane, that marriage between us is out of all human 
reason?” 

“Lassiter! . . . My dear friend! ... It’s impossible for us 
to marry.” 

“Why — as Fay says?” inquired Lassiter, with gentle persist- 
ence. 

“Why! I never thought why. But it’s not possible. I am 
Jane, daughter of Withersteen. My father would rise out of 
his grave. I’m of Mormon birth. I’m being broken. But I’m 
still a Mormon woman. And you — ^you are Lassiter!” 

“Mebbe I’m not so much Lassiter as I used to be.” 

“What was it you said? Habit of years is strong as life 


272 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


itself! You can’t change the one habit — the purpose of your 
life. For you still pack those black guns! You still nurse your 
passion for blood.” 

A smile, like a shadow, flickered across his face. 

‘‘No.” 

“Lassiter, I lied to you. But I beg of you — don’t you lie 
to me. I’ve great respect for you. I believe you’re softened 
toward most, perhaps all, my people except — But when I speak 
of your purpose, your hate, your guns, I have only him in mind. 
I don ’t believe you ’ve changed. ” 

For answer he unbuckled the heavy cartridge-belt, and laid 
it with the heavy, swinging gun-sheaths in her lap. 

“Lassiter!” Jane whispered, as she gazed from him to the 
black, cold guns. Without them he appeared shorn of strength, 
defenseless, a smaller man. Was she Delilah.^^ Swiftly, con- 
scious of only one motive — refusal to see this man called craven 
by his enemies — she rose, and with blundering fingers buckled 
the belt round his waist where it belonged. 

“Lassiter, 1 am the coward.” 

“Come with me out of Utah — where I can put away my guns 
an’ be a man,” he said. “I reckon I’ll prove it to you then! 
Come ! You ’ ve got Black Star back, an ’ Night an ’ Bells. Let ’s 
take the racers an’ little Fay, an’ ride out of Utah. The bosses 
an’ the child are all you have left. Come!” 

“No, no, Lassiter. I’ll never leave Utah. What would I 
do in the world with my broken fortunes and my broken heart.^^ 
I’ll never leave these purple slopes I love so well.” 

“I reckon I ought to ’ve knowed that. Presently you’ll 
be livin’ down here in a hovel, an’ presently Jane Withersteen 
will be a memory. I only wanted to have a chance to show you 
how a man — any man — can be better ’n he was. If we left 
Utah I could prove — I reckon I could prove this thing you call 
love. It ’s strange, an ’ hell an ’ heaven at once, Jane Withersteen. 


FAY 273 

Tears to me that you’ve thrown away your big heart on love- 
love of religion an’ duty an’ churchmen, an’ riders an’ poor 
families an’ poor children! Yet you can’t see what love is— 
how it changes a person! . . . Listen, an’ in tellin’ you Milly 
Erne’s story I’ll show you how love changed her. 

Milly an me was children when our family moved from 
Missouri to Texas, an’ we growed up in Texas ways same as if 
we d been born there. We had been poor, an’ there we prospered. 
In time the little village where we went became a town, an’ 
strangers an’ new families kept movin’ in. Milly was the belle 
them days. I can see her now, a little girl no bigger ’n a bird, 
an’ as pretty. She had the finest eyes, dark-blue-black when 
she was excited, an’ beautiful all the time. You remember 
Milly ’s eyes! An’ she had light-brown hair with streaks of 
gold, an’ a mouth that every feller wanted to kiss. 

“An’ about the time Milly was the prettiest an’ the sweetest, 
along came a young minister who began to ride some of a race 
with the other fellers for Milly. An’ he won. Milly had always 
been strong on religion, an’ when she met Frank Erne she went 
in heart an’ soul for the salvation of souls. Fact was, Milly, 
through study of the Bible an’ attendin’ church an’ revivals, 
went a little out of her head. It didn ’t worry the old folks none, 
an’ the only worry to me was Milly ’s everlastin’ prayin’ an’ 
workin’ to save my soul. She never converted me, but we was 
the best of comrades, an’ I reckon no brother an’ sister ever loved 
each other better. Well, Frank Erne an ’ me hit up a great friend- 
ship. He was a strappin’ feller, good to look at, an’ had the 
most pleasin’ ways. His religion never bothered me, for he 
could himt an’ fish an’ ride, an’ be a good feller. After buffalo 
once, he come pretty near to savin’ my life. We got to be thick 
as brothers, an ’ he was the only man I ever seen who I thought 
was good enough for Milly. An’ the day they were married I 
got drunk for the only time in my life. 


274 EIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

Soon after that I left home — it seems Milly was the only 
one who could keep me home— an’ I went to the bad, as to 
prosperin’. I saw some pretty hard life in the Pan Handle, an’ 
then I went North. In them days Kansas an’ Nebraska was as 
bad, come to think of it, as these days right here on the border 
of Utah. I got to be pretty handy with guns. An’ there wasn ’t 
many riders as could beat me ridin’. An’ I can say all modest- 
like that I never seen the white man who could track a hoss or 
a steer or a man with me. Afore I knowed it, two years slipped 
by, an’ all at once I got homesick, an’ pulled a bridle south. 

“Things at home had changed. I never got over that home- 
cornin’. Mother was dead an’ in her grave. Father was a 
silent, broken man, killed already on his feet. Frank Erne was 
a ghost of his old self, through with workin’, through with 
preachin’, almost through with livin’, an’ Milly was gone! 

It was a long time before I got the story. Father had no mind 
left, an’ Frank Erne was afraid to talk. So I had to pick up 
what’d happened from different people. 

It pears that soon after I left home another preacher come 
to the little town. An’ he an’ Frank become rivals. This 
feller was different from Frank. He preached some other kind 
of religion, and he was quick an’ passionate, where Frank was 
slow and mild. He went after people, women specially. In 
looks he couldn’t compare to Frank Erne, but he had power over 
women. He had a voice, an ’ he talked an ’ talked an’ preached an’ 
preached. Milly fell under his influence. She became mightily 
interested in his religion. Frank had patience with her, as was 
his way, an’ let her be as interested as she liked. All religions 
were devoted to one God, he said, an’ it wouldn’t hurt Milly 
none to study a different point of view. So the new preacher 
often called on Milly, an’ sometimes in Frank’s absence. Frank 
was a cattle-man between Sundays. 

“Along about this time an incident come off that I couldn’t 


FAY 275 

get much light on. A stranger come to town, an’ was seen with 
the preacher. This stranger was a big man with an eye like blue 
ice, an a beard of gold. He had money, an’ he ’peared a man 
of mystery, an the town went to buzzin’ when he disappeared 
about the same time as a young woman Imown to be mightily 
interested in the new preacher’s religion. Then, presently, along 
comes a man from somewheres in Illinois, an’ he up an’ spots 
this preacher as a famous Mormon proselyter. That riled Frank 
Erne as nothin’ ever before, an’ from rivals they come to be bitter 
enemies. ^ An’ it ended in Frank goin’ to the meetin ’-house 
where Milly was listenin’, an’ before her an’ everybody else he 
called that preacher — called him, well, almost as hard as Venters 
called Tull here some time back. An’ Frank followed up that 
call with a hoss-whippin ’, an’ he drove the proselyter out of town. 

“People noticed, so ’twas said, that Milly ’s sweet disposition 
changed. Some said it was because she would soon become a 
mother, an’ others said she was pinin’ after the new religion. 
An’ there was women who said right out that she was pinin’ 
after the Mormon. Anyway, one mornin’ Frank rode in from 
one of his trips, to find Milly gone. He had no real near neigh- 
bors — livin ’ a little out of town — but those who was nearest said 
a wagon had gone by in the night, an’ they thought it stopped at 
her door. Well, tracks always tell, an’ there was the wagon 
tracks an’ hoss tracks an’ man tracks. The news spread like 
wildfire that Milly had run off from her husband. Everybody 
but Frank believed it, an’ wasn’t slow in tellin’ why she run off. 
Mother had always hated that strange streak of Milly ’s, takin’ 
up with the new religion as she had, an’ she believed Milly ran 
off with the Mormon. That hastened mother’s death, an’ she 
died unforgivin’. Father wasn’t the kind to bow down under 
disgrace or misfortune, but he had surpassin’ love for Milly, an’ 
the loss of her broke him. 

“From the minute I heard of Milly ’s disappearance I never 


276 


EIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


believed she went off of her own free will. I knew Milly, an’ 
I knew she couldn’t have done that. I stayed at home awhile, 
tryin’ to make Frank Erne talk. But if he knowed anythin’ 
then he wouldn’t tell it. So I set out to find Milly. An’ I 
tried to get on the trail of that proselyter. I knew if I ever 
struck a town he’d visited that I’d get a trail. I knew, too, that 
nothin’ short of hell would stop his proselytin’. An’ I rode from 
town to town. I had a blind faith that somethin’ was guidin’ 
me. An’ as the weeks an’ months went by I growed into a 
strange sort of a man, I guess. Anyway, people were afraid of 
me. Two years after that, way over in a comer of Texas, I 
struck a town where my man had been. He’d jest left. People 
said he came to that town without a woman. I back-trailed my 
man through Arkansas an ’ Mississippi, an ’ the old trail got hot 
again in Texas. I found the town where he first went after 
leavin’ home. An’ here I got track of Milly. I found a cabin 
where she had given birth to her baby. There was no way to 
tell whether she’d been kept a prisoner or not. The feller who 
owned the place was a mean, silent sort of a skunk, an’ as I was 
leavin’ I jest took a chance an’ left my mark on him. Then I 
went home again. 

‘Tt was to find I hadn’t any home no more. Father had 
been dead a year. Frank Erne still lived in the house where 
Milly had left him. I stayed with him awhile, an’ I grew old 
watchin ’ him. His farm had gone to weed, his cattle had strayed 
or been rustled, his house weathered till it wouldn’t keep out 
rain nor wind. An’ Frank set on the porch and whittled sticks, 
an day by day wasted away. There was times when he ranted 
about like a crazy man, but mostly he was always sittin’ an’ 
starin’ with eyes that made a man curse. I figured Frank had 
a secret fear that I needed to know. An’ when I told him I’d 
trailed Milly for near three years, an’ had got trace of her, an’ 
saw where she’d had her baby, I thought he would drop dead at 


FAY 


£77 

my feet. An’ when he’d come round more . natural-like he 
begged me to give up the trail. But he wouldn’t explain. So I 
let him alone, an’ watched him day an’ night. 

‘‘An’ I found there was one thing still precious to him, an’ 
it was a little drawer where he kept his papers. This was in the 
room where he slept. An’ it ’peared he seldom slept. But 
after bein’ patient I got the contents of that drawer an’ found 
two letters from Milly. One was a long letter written a few 
months after her disappearance. She had been bound an’ 
gagged an’ dragged away from her home by three men, an’ she 
named them— Hurd, Metzger, Slack. They was strangers to 
her. She was taken to the little town where I found trace of her 
two years after. But she didn’t send the letter from that town. 
There she was penned in. ’Beared that the proselyter, who had, 
of course, come on the scene, was not runnin’ any risks of losin’ 
her. She went on to say that for a time she was out of her head, 
an’ when she got right again all that kept her alive was the baby. 
It was a beautiful baby, she said, an’ all she thought an’ dreamed 
of was somehow to get baby back to its father, an’ then she’d 
thankfully lay down and die. An’ the letter ended abrupt, in 
the middle of a sentence, an’ it wasn’t signed. 

“The second letter was written more than two years after 
the first. It was from Salt Lake City. It simply said that Milly 
had heard her brother was on her trail. She asked Frank to tell 
her brother to give up the search because if he didn ’t she would 
suffer in a way too horrible to tell. She didn’t beg. She just 
stated a fact an’ made the simple request. An’ she ended that 
letter by sayin’ she would soon leave Salt Lake City with the 
man she had come to love, an’ would never be heard of again. 

“I recognized Milly’s handwritin’, an’ I recognized her way 
of puttin’ things. But that second letter told me of some great 
change in her. Ponderin’ over it, I felt at last she’d either come 
to love that feller an’ his religion, or some terrible fear made 


278 RIDERS OP THE PURPLE SAGE 

her lie an say so. I couldn’t be sure which. But, of course, 
I meant to find out. I’ll say here, if I’d known Mormons then 
as I do now I ’d left Milly to her fate. For mebbe she was right 
about what she d suffer if I kept on her trail. But I was young 
an’ wild them days. First I went to the town where she’d 
first been taken, an I went to the place where she’d been kept. 
I got that skunk who owned the place, an’ took him out in the 
woods, an made him tell all he knowed. That wasn’t much as 
to length, but it was pure hell’s-fire in substance. This time I 
left him some incapacitated for any more skunk work short of 
hell. Then I hit the trail for Utah. 

That was fourteen years ago. I saw the incomin’ of most 
of the Mormons. It was a wild country an ’ a wild time. I rode 
from town to town, village to village, ranch to ranch, camp to 
camp. I never stayed long in one place. I never had but one 
idea. I never rested. Four years went by, an’ I knowed every 
trail m northern Utah. I kept on, an’ as time went by, an’ I’d 
begun to grow old in my search, I had firmer, blinder faith in 
whatever was guidin’ me. Once I read about a feller who sailed 
the seven seas an traveled the world, an’ he had a story to tell, 
an’ whenever he seen the man to whom he must tell that story 
he Imowed him on sight. I was like that, only I had a question 
to ask. An’ always I knew the man of whom I must ask. So I 
never really lost the trail, though for years it was the dimmest 
trail ever followed by any man. 

“Then come a change in my luck. Along in central Utah I 
rounded up Hurd, an’ -I whispered somethin’ in his ear, an’ 
watched his face, an ’ then throwed a gun against his bowels. ’ An ’ 
he died with his teeth so tight shut I couldn’t have pried them 
open with a knife. Slack an’ Metzger that same year both 
heard me whisper the same question, an’ neither would they 
speak a word when they lay dyin’. Long before I’d learned no 
man of this breed or class— or God knows what— would give up 


FAY 


279 


any secrets! I had to see in a man’s fear of death the connec- 
tions with Milly Erne’s fate. An’ as the years passed at long 
intervals I would find such a man. 

“So as I drifted on the long trail down into southern Utah 
my name preceded me, an I had to meet a people prepared for 
me, an ready with guns. They made me a gun -man. An’ 
that suited me. In all this time signs of the proselyter an’ the 
giant with the blue-ice eyes an’ the gold beard seemed to fade 
dimmer out of the trail. Only twice in ten years did I find a 
trace of that mysterious man who had visited the proselyter at 
my home village. What he had to do with Milly ’s fate was 
beyond all hope for me to learn, unless my guidin’ spirit led me 
to him! As for the other man, I knew, as sure as I breathed an’ 
the stars shone an’ the wind blew, that I’d meet him some day. 

“Eighteen years I’ve been on the trail. An’ it led me to the 
last lonely villages of the Utah border. Eighteen years! . . . 
I feel pretty old now. I was only twenty when I hit that trail. 
Well, as I told you, back here a ways a Gentile said Jane Wither- 
steen could tell me about Milly Erne an’ show me her grave!” 

The low voice ceased, and Lassiter slowly turned his sombrero 
round and round, and appeared to be counting the silver orna- 
ments on the band. Jane, leaning toward him, sat as if petri- 
fied, listening intently, waiting to hear more. She could have 
shrieked, but power of tongue and lips were denied her. She 
saw only this sad, gray, passion-worn man, and she heard only 
the faint rustling of the leaves. 

“Well, I came to Cottonwoods,” went on Lassiter, “an’ you 
showed me Milly ’s grave. An’ though your teeth have been 
shut tighter ’n them of all the dead men lyin’ back along that 
trail, jest the same you told me the secret I’ve lived these eighteen 
years to hear! Jane, I said you’d tell me without ever me askin’. 
I didn’t need to ask my question here. The day, you remember, 

when that fat party thro wed a gun on me in your court, an’ — ” 
19 


280 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


Oh! Hush!” whispered Jane, blindly holding up her hands. 
I seen in your face that Dyer, now a bishop, was the proselyter 
who ruined Milly Erne!^^ 


For an instant Jane Withersteens’ brain was a whirling chaos, 
and she recovered to find herself grasping at Lassiter like one 
drowning. And as if by a lightning stroke she sprang from her 
dull apathy into exquisite torture. 

"'Us a lie! Lassiter! No, no!” she moaned. “I swear— 
you’re wrong!” 

‘‘Stop! You’d perjure yourself! But I’ll spare you that. 
You poor woman! Still blind! Still faithful! . . . Listen. I 
hnow. Let that settle it. An’ I give up my purpose!” 

“What is it — ^you say.?^” 

“I give up my purpose. I ’ve come to see an ’ feel differently. 
I can’t help poor Milly. An’ I’ve outgrowed revenge. I’ve 
come to see I can be no judge for men. I can’t kill a man jest 
for hate. Hate ain t the same with me smce I loved vou an’ 
little Fay.” 

]‘^assjter! You mean you won’t kill him?” Jane whispered. 


“For my sake?” 

‘‘I reckon. I can ’t understand, but I ’ll respect your feelin’s.” 
“Because you — oh, because you love me? . . . Eighteen 
years! You were that terrible Lassiter! And now— hecause 
you love me?” 

“That’s it, Jane.” 


/‘Oh, you’ll make me love you! How can I help but love 
you? My heart must be stone. But— oh, Lassiter, wait, 
wait! Give me time. I’m not what I was. Once it was so 
easy to love. Now it’s easy to hate. Wait! My faith in God 
—sorm God still lives. By it I see happier times for you, poor 
passion-swayed wanderer! For me-a miserable, broken woman 
I loved your sister Milly. I vM love you. I can’t have fallen 


FAY 281 

so low— I can’t be so abandoned by God— that I’ve no love 
left to give you. Wait! Let us forget Milly’s sad life. Ah, 
I knew it as no one else on earth! There’s one thing I shall tell 
you if you are at my death-bed, but I can’t speak now.” 

“I reckon I don’t want to hear no more,” said Lassiter. 

Jane leaned against him, as if some pent-up force had rent 
its way out, she fell into a paroxysm of weeping. Lassiter held 
her in silent sympathy. By degrees she regained composure, 
and she was rising, sensible of being relieved of a weighty burden, 
when a sudden start on Lassiter’s part alarmed her. 

“I heard bosses — ^bosses with muffled hoofs!” he said; and 
he got up guardedly. 

“Where’s Fay.^^” asked Jane, hurriedly glancing round the 
shady knoll. The bright-haired child, who had appeared to be 
close all the time, was not in sight. 

“Fay!” called Jane. 

No answering shout of glee. No patter of flying feet. Jane 
saw Lassiter stiffen. 

“Fa 2 / — oh — Fay!^* Jane almost screamed. 

The leaves quivered and rustled; a lonesome cricket chirped 
in the grass; a bee hummed by. The silence of the waning 
afternoon breathed hateful portent. It terrified Jane. When 
had silence been so infernal? 

“She’s — only — strayed — out — of earshot,” faltered Jane, 
looking at Lassiter. 

Pale, rigid as a statue, the rider stood, not in listening, search- 
ing posture, but in one of doomed certainty. Suddenly he grasped 
Jane with an iron hand, and turning his face from her gaze, he 
strode with her from the knoll. 

“See — ^Fay played here last — a house of stones an’ sticks. 

. . . An’ here’s a corral of pebbles with leaves for bosses,” 
said Lassiter, stridently, and pointed to the ground. “Back 
an’ forth she trailed here. . . . See, she’s buried somethin’ — a 


282 RIDERS OP THE PURPLE SAGE 

dead grasshopper — there’s a tombstone . . , here she went, 
chasin’ a lizard — see the tiny streaked trail . . . she pulled bark 
off this cottonwood . . . look in the dust of the path— the letters 
you taught her — she’s drawn pictures of birds an’ bosses an’ 
people. . . , Look, a cross! Oh, Jane your cross!” 

Lassiter dragged Jane on, and as if from a book, read the 
meaning of little Fay’s trail. All the way down the knoll, through 
the shrubbery, round and round a cottonwood. Fay’s vagrant 
fancy left records of her sweet musings and innocent play. Long 
had she lingered round a bird-nest to leave therein the gaudy 
wing of a butterfly. Long had she played beside the running 
stream, sending adrift vessels freighted with pebbly cargo. Then 
she had wandered through the deep grass, her tiny feet scarcely 
turning a fragile blade, and she had dreamed beside some old 
faded flowers. Thus her steps led her into the broad lane. The 
little dimpled imprints of her bare feet showed clean-cut in the 
dust; they went a little way down the lane; and then, at a point 
where they stopped, the great tracks of a man led out from the 
shrubbery and returned. 


CHAPTER XX 


Lassiter’s way 

F ootprints told the story of llttle Fay’s abduction. In 
anguish Jane Withersteen turned speechlessly to Lassiter; 
and confirming her fears, she saw him gray-faced, aged all in a 
moment, stricken as if by a mortal blow. 

Then all her life seemed to fall about her in wreck and ruin. 
“It’s all over,” she heard her voice whisper. “It’s ended. 
I’m going — ^I’m going — ” 

“Where.^” demanded Lassiter, suddenly looming darkly 
over her. 

“To — to those cruel men — ” 

“Speak names!” thimdered Lassiter. 

“To Bishop Dyer — to Tull,” went on Jane, shocked into 
obedience. 

“Well— what for?” 

“I want little Fay. I can’t live without her. They’ve 
stolen her as they stole Milly Erne’s child. I must have little 
Fay — I want only her. I give up. I’ll go and tell Bishop 
Dyer — ^I’m broken. I’ll tell him I’m ready for the yoke — only 
give me back Fay — and — and I’ll marry Tull!” 

“Never!** hissed Lassiter. 

His long arm leaped at her. Almost running, he dragged 
her under the cottonwoods, across the court, into the huge hall 
of Withersteen House, and he shut the door with a force that 
jarred the heavy walls. Black Star and Night and Bells, since 


284 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

their return, had been locked in this hall, and now they stamped 
on the stone floor. 

Lassiter released Jane, and like a dizzy man swayed from 
her with a hoarse cry and leaned shaking against a table, where 
he kept his rider s accoutrements. He began to fumble in his 
saddle-bags. His action brought a clinking, metallic sound— 
the rattling of gun-cartridges. His fingers trembled as he 
slipped cartridges into an extra belt. But as he buckled it over 
the one he habitually wore his hands became steady. This 
second belt contained two guns, smaller than the black ones 
swinging low, and he slipped them round so that his coat hid them. 
Then he fell to swift action. Jane Withersteen watched him, 
fascinated but uncomprehending; and she saw him rapidly 
saddle Black Star and Night. Then he drew her into the light 
of the huge window, standing over her, gripping her arm with 
fingers like cold steel. 

Yes, Jane, it’s ended — but you’re not goin’ to Dyer! 

Vm goin' instead!” 

Looking at him — he was so terrible of aspect — ^she could not 
comprehend his words. Who was this man with the face gray 
as death, with eyes that would have made her shriek had she 
the strength, with the strange, ruthlessly bitter lips? Where 
was the gentle Lassiter? What was this presence in the hall^ 
about him, about her — this cold, invisible presence? 

Yes, it s ended, Jane, ” he was saying, so awfully quiet and 
cool and mplacable, “an’ I’m goin’ to make a little call. I’ll 
lock you in here, an’ when I get back have the saddle-bags 
lull of meat an bread. An’ be ready to ride!” 

“Lassiter!” cried Jane. 

Desperately she tried to meet his gray eyes, in vain* 
desperately she tried again, fought herself as feeling and 
thought resmged in torment, and she succeeded; and then 
she knew. 


LASSITER’S WAY 285 

*‘No — ^no — ^no!” she wailed. “You said you’d foregone your 
vengeance. You promised not to kill Bishop Dyer.” 

“If you want to talk to me about him — leave off the Bishop. 
I don’t understand that name, or its use.” 

“Oh, hadn’t you foregone your vengeance on — on Dyer.?^” 

“Yes.” 

“But — ^your actions — your words — your guns — ^your terrible 
looks! . . . They don’t seem foregoing vengeance.” 

“Jane, now it’s justice.” 

“You’ll— kill him?” 

“If God lets me live another hour! If not God — then the 
devil who drives me!” 

“You’ll kill him — for yourself — for your vengeful hate?” 

“No!” 

“For Milly Erne’s sake?” 

“No.” 

“For Httle Fay’s?” 

“No!” 

“Oh — for whose?” 

“For yours! 

“His blood on my soul!” whispered Jane, and she fell to her 
knees. This was the long-pending hour of fruition. And the 
habit of years — the religious passion of her life — leaped from 
lethargy, and the long months of gradual drifting to doubt were 
as if they had never been. “If you spill his blood it’ll be on my 
soul — and on my father’s. Listen. ” And she clasped his 
knees, and clung there as he tried to raise her. “Listen. Am I 
nothing to you?” 

“Woman— don’t trifle at words! I love you! An’ I’ll 
soon prove it!” 

“I’ll give myself to you — ^I’ll ride away with you — ^marry 
you, if only you’ll spare him?” 

His answer was a cold, ringing, terrible laugh. 


286 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

‘Xassiter — I’ll love you — spare him!” 

“No!” 

She sprang up in despairing, breaking spirit, and encircled 
his neck with her arms, and held him in an embrace that he 
strove vainly to loosen. “Lassiter, would you kill me? I’m 
fighting my last fight for the principles of my youth — love of 
religion, love of father. You don’t know — you can’t guess the 
truth, and I can’t speak it! I’m losing all. I’m changing. 
All I ve gone through is nothing to this hour. Pity me — help 
me in my wealoiess. You’re strong again — oh, so cruelly, 
coldly strong! You’re killing me— I see you— feel you as some 
other Lassiter! My master, be merciful — spare him!” 

His answer was a ruthless smile. 

She clung the closer to him, and leaned her panting breast 
on him, and lifted her face to his. “ Lassiter, I do love you! It ’s 
leaped out of my agony. It comes suddenly with a terrible 
blow of truth. You are a man ! I never knew it till now. Some 
wonderful change came to me when you buckled on these guns 
and showed that gray, awful face. I loved you then. All my 
life I’ve loved, but never as now. No woman can love like a 
broken woman. If it were not for one thing— just one thing— 
and yet! I canH speak it — I’d glory in your manhood — the 
hon m you that means to slay for me. Believe me— and spare 
Dyer. Be merciful— great as it’s in you to be great. . 

Oh, listen and believe— I have nothing, but I’m a woman— a 
beautiful woman, Lassiter— a passionate, loving woman— and I 
love you! Take me— hide me in some wild place— and love 
me and mend my broken heart. Spare him, and take me 
away. 

She lifted her face closer and closer to his, until their lips 
nearly touched, and she hung upon his neck, and with strength 
almost spent pressed and still pressed her palpiteting body to his 

Kiss me!” she whispered, blindly. 


LASSITER’S WAY 287 

‘‘No— not at your price!” he answered. His voice had 
changed, or she had lost clearness of hearing. 

‘‘Kiss me! . . . Are you a man? Kiss me and save me!” 

^ “Jane, you never played fair with me. But now you’re 
blisterin’ your lips — blackenin’ your soul with lies!” 

“By the memory of my mother— by my Bible— no! No, I 
have no Bible! But by my hope of heaven I swear I love 
you!” 

Lassiter’s gray lips formed soundless words that meant 
even her love could not avail to bend his will. As if the hold 
of her arms was that of a child’s he loosened it and stepped 
away. 

“Wait! Don’t go! Oh, hear a last word! . . . May a 
more just and merciful God than the God I was taught to worship 
j udge me— forgive me — save me ! For I can no longer keep silent ! 

. . . Lassiter, in pleading for Dyer I’ve been pleading more for 
my father. My father was a Mormon master, close to the leaders 
of the church. It was my father who sent Dyer out to prose- 
lyte. It was my father who had the blue-ice eyes and the beard 
of gold. It was my father you got trace of in the past years. 
Truly, Dyer ruined Milly Erne — dragged her from her home — 
to Utah — to Cottonwoods. But it was for my father! If Milly 
Erne was ever wife of a Mormon that Mormon was my father! 

I never knew — ^never will know whether or not she was a wife. 
Blind I may be, Lassiter — fanatically faithful to a false religion 
I may have been, but I know justice, and my father is beyond 
human justice. Surely he is meeting just punishment — some- 
where. Always it has appalled me — the thought of your killing 
Dyer for my father’s sins. So I have prayed!” 

“Jane, the past is dead. In my love for you I forgot the past. 
This thing I’m about to do ain’t for myself, or Milly, or Fay. 
It’s not because of anythin’ that ever happened in the past, 
.but for what is happenin’ right now, It*s for you! ... An’ 


288 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

listen. Since I was a boy IVe never thanked God for anythin’. 
If there is a God— an’ I’ve come to believe it— I thank Him 
now for the years that made me Lassiter! ... I can reach 
down an’ feel these big guns, an’ know what I can do with them. 
An’, Jane, only one of the miracles Dyer professes to believe in 
can save him!” 

Again for Jane Withersteen came the spinning of her brain 
in darkness, and as she whirled in endless chaos she seemed 
to be falling at the feet of a luminous figure — a man — Las- 
siter — who had saved her from herself, who could not be 
changed, who would slay rightfully. Then she slipped into utter 
blackness. 

When she recovered from her faint she became aware that 
she was lying on a couch near the window in her sitting-room. 
Her brow felt damp and cold and wet; some one was chafing her 
hands; she recognized Judkins, and then saw that his lean, hard 
face wore the hue and look of excessive agitation. 

“Judkins!” Her voice broke weakly. 

“Aw, Miss Withersteen, you’re cornin’ round fine. Now 
jest lay still a little. You’re all right; everythin’s all right.” 

“Where is — ^he?” 

“Who?” 

“Lassiter!” 

“You needn’t worry none about him.” 

“Where is he? Tell me — instantly.” 

“Wal, he’s in the other room patchin’ up a few trifiin’ bullet- 
holes.” 

“AW . . . Bishop Dyer?’^ 

“When I seen him last — a matter of half an hour ago — 
he was on his knees. He was some busy, hut he wasn’t 
prayin’!” 

“How strangely you talk! I’ll sit up. I’m — well, strong 
again. Tell me. Dyer on his knees! What was he doing?” 


LASSITER’S WAY 289 

“Wal, beggin’ your pardon fer blunt talk. Miss Withersteen, 
Dyer was on his knees an’ not prayin’. You remember his 
big, broad hands? You’ve seen ’em raised in blessin’ over old 
gray men an’ little curly-headed children like— like Fay Larkin! 
Come to think of thet, I disremember ever bearin’ of his liftin’ 
his big hands in blessin’ over a woman, Wal, when I seen him 
last jest a little while ago — he was on his knees, not prayin’, 
as I remarked — an ’ he was pressin ’ his big hands over some bigger 
wounds. ” 

“Man, you drive me mad! Did Lassiter kill Dyer?” 
“Yes.” 

“Did he kill Tull?” 

“No. Tull’s out of the village with most of his riders. 
He’s expected back before evenin’. Lassiter will hev to git 
away before Tull an’ his riders come in. It’s sure death fer 
him here. An’ wuss fer you, too. Miss Withersteen. There’ll 
be some of an uprisin’ when Tull gits back.” 

“I shall ride away with Lassiter. Judkins, tell me all you 
saw — all you know about this killing.” She realized, without 
wonder or amaze, how Judkins’s one word, affirming the death 
of Dyer — that the castastrophe had fallen — had completed the 
change whereby she had been molded or beaten or broken into 
another woman. She felt calm, slightly cold, strong as she had 
not been strong since the first shadow fell upon her. 

“I jest saw about all of it. Miss Withersteen, an’ I’ll be 
glad to tell you if you’ll only hev patience with me,” said Jud- 
kins, earnestly. “You see, I’ve been pecooliarly interested, 
an’ nat’rully I’m some excited. An’ I talk a lot thet mebbe 
ain’t necessary, but I can’t help thet. 

“I was at the meetin’-house where Dyer was holdin’ court. 
You Imow he alius acts as magistrate an’ judge when Tull’s 
away. An’ the trial was fer tryin’ what’s left of my boy riders 
— thet helped me hold your cattle — fer a lot of hatched-up 


290 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


things the boys never did. We’re used to thet, an’ the boys 
wouldn’t hev minded bein’ locked up fer a while, or hevin’ to 
dig ditches, or whatever the judge laid down. You see, I divided 
the gold you give me among all my boys, an’ they all hid it, an’ 
they all feel rich. Howsomever, court was adjourned before 
the judge passed sentence. Yes, ma’m, court was adjourned 
some strange an’ quick, much as if lightnin’ hed struck the 
meetin ’-house. 

‘T hed trouble attendin’ the trial, but I got in. There was 
a good many people there, all my boys, an’ Judge Dyer with 
his several clerks. Also he hed with him the five riders who’ve 
been guardin’ him pretty close of late. They was Carter, 
Wright, Jengessen, an’ two new riders from Stone Bridge. I 
didn’t hear their names, but I heard they was handy men with 
guns, an’ they looked more like rustlers than riders. Anyway, 
there they was, the five all in a row. 

“Judge Dyer was tellin’ Willie Kern, one of my best an’ 
steadiest boys — Dyer was tellin’ him how there was a ditch 
opened near Willie’s home lettin’ water through his lot, where 
it hadn’t ought to go. An’ Willie was tryin’ to git a word in 
to prove he wasn’t at home all the day it happened — which was 
true, as I know — but Willie couldn’t git a word in, an’ then 
Judge Dyer went on layin’ down the law. An’ all to onct he 
happened to look down the long room. An’ if ever any man 
turned to stone he was thet man. 

“Nat’rully I looked back to see what hed acted so powerful 
strange on the judge. An’ there, half-way up the room, in the 
middle of the wide aisle, stood Lassiter! All white an’ black 
he looked, an’ I can’t think of anythin’ he resembled, onless 
it’s death. Venters made thet same room some still an’ chilly 
when he called Tull; but this was different. I give my word. 
Miss Withersteen, thet I went cold to my very marrow. I 
don’t know why. But Lassiter has a way about him thet’s 


LASSITER’S WAY 291 

awful. He spoke a word— a nam^I couldn’t understand it, 
though he spoke clear as a bell. I was too excited, mebbe. 
Judge Dyer must hev understood it, an’ a lot more thet was 
mystery to me, fer he pitched forrard out of his chair right onto 
the platform. 

^ Then them five riders, Dyer’s bodyguards, they jumped up, 
an’ two of them thet I found out afterward were the strangers 
from Stone Bridge, they piled right out of a winder, so quick 
you couldn’t catch your breath. It was plain they wasn’t 
Mormons. 

“Jengessen, Carter, an’ Wright eyed Lassiter, for what must 
hev been a second an’ seemed like an hour, an’ they went white 
an strung. But they didn ’t weaken nor lose their nerve. 

“ I hed a good look at Lassiter. He stood sort of stiff, bendin ’ 
a little, an’ both his arms were crooked, an’ his hands looked like 
a hawk’s claws. But there ain’t no tellin’ how his eyes looked. 
I know this, though, an’ thet is his eyes could read the mind of 
any man about to throw a gun. An’ in watchin’ him, of course, 
I couldn’t see the three men go fer their guns. An’ though I 
was lookin’ right at Lassiter— lookin ’ hard— I couldn’t see how 
he drawed. He was quicker ’n eyesight — thet’s all. But I 
seen the red spurtin’ of his guns, an’ heard his shots jest the 
very littlest instant before I heard the shots of the riders. An’ 
when I turned, Wright an’ Carter was down, an’ Jengessen, 
who’s tough like a steer, was pullin’ the trigger of a wobblin’ 
gun. But it was plain he was shot through, plumb center. An’ 
sudden he fell with a crash, an’ his gun clattered on the floor. 

“Then there was a hell of a silence. Nobody breathed. 
Sartin I didn’t, anyway. I saw Lassiter slip a smokin’ gun 
back in a belt. But he hadn’t thro wed either of the big black 
guns, an’ I thought thet strange. An’ all this was happenin’ 
quick — you can’t imagine how quick. 

“There come a scrapin’ on the floor an’ Dyer got up, his 


292 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

face like lead. I wanted to watch Lassiter, but Dyer’s face, 
onct I seen it like thet, glued my eyes. I seen him go fer his 
gun — why, I could hev done better, quicker — an’ then there 
was a thunderin ’ shot from Lassiter, an ’ it hit Dyer’s right arm, 
an’ his gun went off as it dropped. He looked at Lassiter like 
a cornered sage- wolf, an’ sort of howled, an’ reached down fer 
his gun. He’d jest picked it off the floor an’ was raisin’ it when 
another thunderin’ shot almost tore thet arm off — so it seemed 
to me. The gun dropped again, an’ he went down on his knees, 
kind of flounderin’ after it. It was some strange an’ terrible 
to see his awful earnestness. Why would such a man cling so to 
life? Anyway, he got the gun with left hand an’ was raisin’ it, 
pullin’ trigger in his madness, when the third thunderin’ shot 
hit his left arm, an’ he dropped the gun again. But thet left 
arm wasn’t useless yet, fer he grabbed up the gun, an’ with a 
shakin ’ aim thet would hev been pitiful to me — in any other man 
— he began to shoot. One wild bullet struck a man twenty 
feet from Lassiter. An’ it killed thet man, as I seen afterward. 
Then come a bunch of thunderin’ shots — nine I calkilated after, 
fer they come so quick I couldn’t count them — an’ I knew Las- 
siter hed turned the black guns loose on Dyer. 

‘T’m tellin’ you straight. Miss Withersteen, fer I want you 
to know. Afterward you’ll git over it. I’ve seen some soul- 
rackin’ scenes on this Utah border, but this was the awfulest. I 
remember I closed my eyes, an’ fer a minute I thought of the 
strangest things, out of place there, such as you’d never dream 
would come to mind. I saw the sage, an’ runnin’ bosses — an* 
thet’s the beautifulest sight to me— an’ I saw dim things in the 
dark, an’ there was a kind of hummin’ in my ears. An’ I re- 
member distinctly— fer it was what made all these things whirl 
out of my mind an’ opened my eyes— I remember distinctly it 
was the smell of gunpowder. 

' “The court had about adjourned fer thet judge. He was 


293 


LASSITER’S WAY 

on his kn^s, an’ he wasn’t prayin’. He was gaspin’ an’ tryin’ 
to press his big, floppin’, crippled hands over his body. Lassiter 
had sent all those last thunderin’ shots through his body. Thet 
was Lassiter’s way. 

An Lassiter spoke, an’ if I ever forgit his words I’ll never 
forgit the sound of his voice. 

‘‘ "Proselyter, I reckon you’d better call quick on thet God 
who reveals Hisself to you on earth, because He won’t be visitin’ 
the place you’re goin’ to!’ 

‘^An’ then I seen Dyer look at his big, bangin’ hands thet 
wasn’t big enough fer the last work he set them to. An’ he 
looked up at Lassiter. An’ then he stared horrible at somethin’ 
thet wasn’t Lassiter, nor any one there, nor the room, nor the 
branches of purple sage peepin’ into the winder. Whatever 
he seen, it was with the look of a man who discovers somethin’ 
too late. Thet’s a terrible look! ... An’ with a horrible under- 
standing cry he slid forrard on his face.” 

Judkins paused in his narrative, breathing heavily while 
he wiped his perspiring brow. 

“Thet’s about all, ” he concluded. “Lassiter left the meetin’- 
house an’ I hurried to catch up with him. He was bleedin’ 
from three gunshots, none of them much to bother him. An’ 
we come right up here. I found you layin’ in the hall, an’ I 
bed to work some over you.” 

Jane Withersteen offered up no prayer for Dyer’s soul. 

Lassiter’s step sounded in the hall — the familiar soft, silver- 
clinking step — and she heard it with thrilling new emotions in 
which was a vague joy in her very fear of him. The door opened, 
and she saw him, the old Lassiter, slow, easy, gentle, cool, yet 
not exactly the same Lassiter. She rose, and for a moment her 
eyes blurred and swam in tears. 

“Are you — all — all right?” she asked, tremulously. 

“I reckon.” 


294 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


‘'Lassiter, I’ll ride away with you. Hide me till danger is 
past — till we are forgotten — then take me where you will. Your 
people shall be my people, and your God my God!” 

He kissed her hand with the quaint grace and courtesy that 
came to him in rare moments. 

“Black Star an’ Night are ready,” he said, simply. 

His quiet mention of the black racers spurred Jane to action. 
Hurrying to her room, she changed to her rider’s suit, packed 
her jewelry, and the gold that was left, and all the woman’s 
apparel for which there was space in the saddle-bags, and then 
returned to the hall. Black Star stamped his iron-shod hoofs 
and tossed his beautiful head, and eyed her with knowing eyes. 

“Judkins, I give Bells to you,” said Jane. “I hope you will 
always keep him and be good to him.” 

Judkins mumbled thanks that he could not speak fluently, 
and his eyes flashed. 

Lassiter strapped Jane’s saddle-bags upon Black Star, and 
led the racers out into the court. 

Judkins, you ride with Jane out into the sage. If you see 
any riders cornin’ shout quick twice. An’, Jane, don't look 
hack! I’ll catch up soon. We’ll get to the break into the pass 
before midnight, an then wait until mornin ’ to go down. ” 

Black Star bent his graceful neck and bowed his noble head, 
and his broad shoulders yielded as he knelt for Jane to mount. 

She rode out of the court beside Judkins, through the grove, 
across the wide lane into the sage; and she realized that she was 
leaving Wlthersteen House forever, and she did not look back. 
A strange, dreamy, calm peace pervaded her soul. Her doom 
had fallen upon her, but, instead of finding life no longer worth 
living, she found it doubly significant, full of sweetness as the 
western breeze, beautiful and unknown as the sage-slope stretch- 
ing its purple sunset shadows before her. She became aware of 
Judkins’s hand touching hers; she heard him speak a husky 



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LASSITER’S WAY 295 

good-by; then mto the place of Bells shot the dead-black, keen, 
racy nose^ of Night, and she knew Lassiter rode beside her. 

Don t look hacJcI'" he said, and his voice, too, was not 
clear. 

Facing straight ahead, seeing only the waving, shadowy 
sage, Jane held out her gauntleted hand, to feel it inclosed in a 
strong clasp. So she rode on without a backward glance at the 
beautiful grove of Cottonwoods. She did not seem to think of 
the past, of what she left forever, but of the color and mystery 
and wildness of the sage-slope leading down to Deception Pass, 
and of the future. She watched the shadows lengthen down 
the slope; she felt the cool west wind sweeping by from the rear; 
and she wondered at low, yellow clouds sailing swiftly over her 
and beyond. 

^^DonH — look — backr’ said Lassiter. 

Thick-driving belts of smoke traveled by on the wind, and 
with it came a strong, pungent odor of burning wood. 

Lassiter had fired Withersteen House! But Jane did not 
look back. 

A misty veil obscured the clear, searching gaze she had kept 
steadfastly upon the purple slope and the dim lines of canons. 
It passed, as passed the rolling clouds of smoke, and she saw the 
valley deepening into the shades of twilight. Night came on, 
swift as the fieet racers, and stars peeped out to brighten and 
grow, and the huge, windy, eastern heave of sage-level paled 
under a rising moon and turned to silver. Blanched in moon- 
light the sage yet seemed to hold its hue of purple, and was in- 
finitely more wild and lonely. So the night-hours wore on, 
and Jane Withersteen never once looked back. 

20 


CHAPTER XXI 


BLACK STAR AND NIGHT 

T he time had come for Venters and Bess to leave their 
retreat. They were at great pains to choose the few things 
they would be able to carry with them on the journey out of 
Utah. 

“Bern, whatever kind of a pack’s this, anyhow?” questioned 
Bess, rising from her work with reddened face. 

Venters, absorbed in his own task, did not look up at all, 
and in reply said he had brought so much from Cottonwoods 
that he did not recollect the half of it. 

“A woman packed this!” Bess exclaimed. 

He scarcely caught her meaning, but the peculiar tone of 
her voice caused him instantly to rise, and he saw Bess on her 
knees before an open pack which he recognized as the one given 
him by Jane. 

“By George!” he ejaculated, guiltily, and then at sight of 
Bess’s face he laughed outright. 

“A woman packed this,” she repeated, fixing woeful, tragic 
eyes on him. 

“Well, is that a crime?” 

“There — there is a woman, after all!” 

“Now Bess—” 

“You’ve lied to me!” 

Then and there Venters found it imperative to postpone 
work for the present. All her life Bess had been isolated, but 
she had inherited certain elements of the eternal feminine. 


BLACK STAR AND NIGHT 


297 


But there was a woman and you did lie to me,” she kept 
repeating, after he had explained. ^ 

RemZtT' ^ moment. 

Remember you ve been pent up all your life. I venture to say 

that if you d been out in the world you’d have had a dozen 
sweethearts and have told many a lie before this. ” 

nantly declared Bess, indig- 


“Well-perhaps not lie. But you’d have had the sweet- 
hearts. You couldn’t have helped that— being so pretty.” 

This remark appeared to be a very clever and fortunate one; 
and the work of sel^ting and then of stowing all the packs in 
the cave went on without further interruption. 

Venters closed up the opening of the cave with a thatch of 
willows and aspens, so that not even a bird or a rat could get in 
to the sacks of grain. And this work was in order with the pre- 
caution habitually observed by him. He might not be able to 
get out of Utah, and have to return to the valley. But he owed 
it to Bess to make the attempt, and in case they were compelled 
to turn back he wanted to find that fine store of food and grain 
mtact. The outfit of implements and utensils he packed away 
in another cave. 


“Bess, we have enough to live here all our lives,” he said 
once, dreamily. 

“Shall I go roll Balancing Rock?” she asked, in light speech, 
but with deep-blue fire in her eyes. 

“No— no.” 

‘‘Ah, you don’t forget the gold and the world,” she sighed. 

“Child, you forget the beautiful dresses and the travel — 
and everything. ” 

“Oh, I want to go. But I want to stay!” 

“I feel the same way.” 

They let the eight calves out of the corral, and kept only two 


298 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


of the burros Venters had brought from Cottonwoods. These 
they intended to ride. Bess freed all her pets — the quail and 
rabbits and foxes. 

The last sunset and twilight and night were both the sweetest 
and saddest they had ever spent in Surprise Valley. Morning 
brought keen exhilaration and excitement. When Venters had 
saddled the two burros, strapped on the light packs and the 
two canteens, the sunlight was dispersing the lazy shadows from 
the valley. Taking a last look at the caves and the silver spruces. 
Venters and Bess made a reluctant start, leading the burros. 
Ring and Whitie looked keen and knowing. Something seemed 
to drag at Venters’s feet, and he noticed Bess lagged behind. 
Never had the climb from terrace to bridge appeared so long. 

Not till they reached the opening of the gorge did they stop 
to rest and take one last look at the valley. The tremendous 
arch of stone curved clear and sharp in outline against the morning 
sky. And through it streaked the golden shaft. The valley 
seemed an enchanted circle of glorious veils of gold and wraiths 
of white and silver haze and dim, blue, moving shade — beautiful 
and wild and unreal as a dream. 

“We — we can — th — think of it — always — re — remember,” 
sobbed Bess. 

“Hush! Don’t cry. Our valley has only fitted us for a 
better life somewhere. Come!” 

They entered the gorge, and he closed the willow gate. From 
rosy, golden, morning light they passed into cool, dense gloom. 
The burros pattered up the trail with little hollow, cracking, steps. 
And the gorge widened to narrow outlet and the gloom lightened 
to gray. At the divide they halted for another rest. Venters’s 
keen, remembering gaze searched Balancing Rock, and the long 
incline, and the cracked toppling walls, but failed to note the 
slightest change. 

The dogs led the descent; then came Bess leading her burro; 


BLACK STAR AND NIGHT 299 

then Venters leading his. Bess kept her eyes bent downward. 
Venters, however, had an irresistible desire to look upward at 
Balancing Rock. It had always haunted him, and now he won- 
dered if he were really to get through the outlet before the huge 
stone thundered down. He fancied that would be a miracle. 

very few steps he ^swered to the strange, nervous fear, and 
turned to make sure the rock still stood like a giant statue. And 
as he descended, it grew dimmer in his sight. It changed form- 
It swayed; It nodded darkly; and at last, in his heightened fancy’ 
he saw it heave and roll. As in a dream when he felt himself 
tallmg yet knew he would never fall, so he saw this long-standing 
thunderbolt of the little stone-men plunge down to close forever 
the outlet to Deception Pass. 

^ And while he was giving way to unaccountable dread 
imaginations the descent was accomplished without mishap. 

“I’m glad that’s over,” he said, breathing more freely. “I 
hope I’m by that hanging rock for good and all. Since almost 
the moment I first saw it I’ve had an idea that it was waiting 
for me. Now, when it does fall, if I’m thousands of miles away. 
I’ll hear it.” 


With the first glimpses of the smooth slope leading down to 
the grotesque cedars and out to the pass. Venters ’s cool nerve 
returned. One long survey to the left, then one to the right, 
satisfied his caution. Leading the burros down to the spur of 
rock, he halted at the steep incline. 

Bess, here s the bad place, the place I told you about, 
with the cut steps. You start down, leading your burro. Take 
your time and hold on to him if you slip. I’ve got a rope on him 
and a half-hitch on this point of rock, so I can let him down 
safely. Coming up here was a killing job. But it’ll be easy 
going down.” 

Both burros passed down the difficult stairs cut by the cliff- 
dwellers, and did it without a misstep. After that the descent 


300 EIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

down the slope and over the mile of scrawled, ribbed, and ridged 
rock required only careful guidance, and Venters got the burros 
to level ground in a condition that caused him to congratulate 
himself. 

Oh, if we only had Wrangle!” exclaimed Venters. ‘‘But 
we’re lucky. That’s the worst of our trail passed. We’ve only 
men to fear now. If we get up in the sage we can hide and slip 
along like coyotes. ” 

They mounted and rode west through the valley and entered 
the canon. From time to time Venters walked, leading his burro. 
When they got by all the canons and gullies opening into the 
pass they went faster and with fewer halts. Venters did not 
confide in Bess the alarming fact that he had seen horses and 
smoke less than a mile up one of the intersecting canons. He 
did not talk at all. And long after he had passed this canon and 
felt secure once more in the certainty that they had been unob- 
served he never relaxed his watchfulness. But he did not walk 
any more, and he kept the burros at a steady trot. Night fell 
before they reached the last water in the pass, and they made 
camp by starlight. Venters did not want the burros to stray, 
so he tied them with long halters in the grass near the spring! 
Bess, tired out and silent, laid her head in a saddle and went to 
sleep between the two dogs. Venters did not close his eyes. 
The canon silence appeared full of the low, continuous hum of 
msects. He listened until the hum grew into a roar, and then, 
breaking the spell, once more he heard it low and clear. He 
watched the stars and the moving shadows, and always his 
glance returned to the girl’s dimly pale face. And he remembered 
how white and still it had once looked in the starlight. And 
again stern thought fought his strange fancies. Would all his 
labor and his love be for naught.^" Would he lose her, after all? 
What did the dark shadow around her portend? Did calamity 
lurk on that long upland trail through the sage? Why should 


BLACK STAR AND NIGHT 301 

his heart swell and throb with nameless fear? He listened to the 
silence, and told himself that in the broad light of day he could 
dispel this leaden-weighted dread. 

At the first hint of gray over the eastern rim he awoke Bess, 
saddled the burros, and began the day’s travel. He wanted to 
get out of the pass before there was any chance of riders coming 
down. They gained the break as the first red rays of the rising 
sun colored the rim. 

For once, so eager was he to get up to level ground, he did 
not send Ring or Whitie in advance. Encouraging Bess to hurry, 
pulling at his patient, plodding burro, he climbed the soft, steep 
trail. 

Brighter and brighter grew the light. He mounted the last 
broken edge of rim to have the sun-fired, purple sage-slope 
burst upon him as a glory. Bess panted up to his side, tugging 
on the halter of her burro. 

“We’re up!” he cried, joyously. “There’s not a dot on the 
sage. We’re safe. We’ll not be seen! Oh, Bess — ” 

Ring growled and sniffed the keen air and bristled. Venters 
clutched at his rifle. Whitie sometimes made a mistake, but 
Ring never. The dull thud of hoofs almost deprived Venters of 
power to turn and see from where disaster threatened. He felt 
his eyes dilate as he stared at Lassiter leading Black Star and 
Night out of the sage, vdth Jane Withersteen, in rider’s costume, 
close beside them. 

For an instant Venters felt himself whirl dizzily in the cen- 
ter of vast circles of sage. He recovered partially, enough to 
see Lassiter standing with a glad smile and Jane riveted in 
astonishment. 

“Why, Bern!” she exclaimed. “How good it is to see you! 
We’re riding away, you see. The storm burst — and I’m a 
ruined woman! ... I thought you were alone.” 

Venters, unable to speak for consternation, and bewildered 


302 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

out of all sense of what he ought or ought not to do, simply 
stared at Jane. 

Son, where are you bound for?” asked Lassiter. 

Not safe where I was — I’m — we’re going out of Utah — 
back East,” he found tongue to say. 

‘‘I reckon this meetin’s the luckiest thing that ever happened 
to you an to me an to Jane — an’ to Bess,” said Lassiter, 
coolly. 

JBess! cried Jane, with a sudden leap of blood to her pale 
cheek. 

It was entirely beyond Venters to see any luck in that meeting. 

Jane Withersteen took one flashing, woman’s glance at Bess’s 
scarlet face, at her slender, shapely form. 

Venters ! is this a girl a woman? ” she questioned, in a voice 
that stung. 

“Yes.” 

“Did you have her in that wonderful valley?” 

“Yes, but Jane — ” 

“All the time you were gone?” 

“Yes, but I couldn’t tell — ” 

“Was it for her you asked me to give you supplies? Was it 
for her that you wanted to make your valley a paradise 

“Oh— Jane-” 

“Answer me.” 

“Yes.” 

, these passionate words Jane 

Withersteen succumbed to fury. For the second time in her 
life she fell into the ungovernable rage that had been her father’s 
weakness.^ And it was worse than his, for she was a jealous 
woman — j’ealous even of her friends. 

As best he could, he bore the brunt of her anger. It was 
not only his deceit to her that she visited upon him, but her 
betrayal by religion, by life itself. 


BLACK STAR AND NIGHT 303 

Her passion, like fire at white heat, consumed itself in little 
time. Her physical strength failed, and still her spirit attempted 
to go on in magnificent denunciation of those who had wronged 
her. Like a tree cut deep into its roots she began to quiver and 
shake, and her anger weakened into despair. And her ringing 
voice sank into a broken, husky whisper. Then, spent and 
pitiable, upheld by Lassiter’s arm, she turned and hid her face 
in Black Star’s mane. 

Numb as Venters was when at length Jane Withersteen lifted 
her head and looked at him, he yet suffered a pang. 

‘‘Jane, the girl is innocent!” he cried. 

Can you expect me to believe that? ” she asked, with weary, 
bitter eyes. 

“I’m not that kind of a liar. And you know it. If I lied 
— if I kept silent when honor should have made me speak, it 
was to spare you. I came to Cottonwoods to tell you. But I 
couldn’t add to your pain. I intended to tell you I had come 
to love this girl. But, Jane, I hadn’t forgotten how good you 
were to me. I haven ’t changed at all toward you. I prize your 
friendship as I always have. But, however it may look to you — 
don’t be unjust. The girl is innocent. Ask Lassiter.” 

“Jane, she’s jest as sweet an’ innocent as little Fay,” said 
Lassiter. There was a faint smile upon his face and a beautiful 
light. 

Venters saw, and knew that Lassiter saw, how Jane Wither- 
steen’s tortured soul wrestled with hate and threw it — with 
scorn, doubt, suspicion, and overcame all. 

“Bern, if in my misery I accused you unjustly, I crave forgive- 
ness,” she said. “I’m not what I once was. Tell me — who is 
this girl?” 

“Jane, she is Oldring’s daughter, and his Masked Rider. 
Lassiter will tell you how I shot her for a rustler, saved her 
life — all the story. It’s a strange story, Jane, as wild as the 


304 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

sage. But it’s true — true as her innocence. That you must 
believe!” 

‘‘Oldring’s Masked Rider! Oldring’s daughter!” exclaimed 
Jane. “And she’s innocent! You ask me to believe much. 
If this girl is — is what you say, how could she be going away 
with the man who killed her father 

“Why did you tell that.?” cried Venters, passionately. 

Jane’s question had roused Bess out of stupefaction. Her 
eyes suddenly darkened and dilated. She stepped toward 
Venters and held up both hands as if to ward off a blow. 

“Did — did you kill Oldring.?” 

“I did, Bess, and I hate myself for it. But you know I 
never dreamed he was your father. I thought he’d wronged you. 
I killed him when I was madly jealous. ” 

For a moment Bess was shocked into silence. 

“But he was my father!” she broke out, at last. “And 
now I must go back— I can’t go with you. It’s all over— that 
beautiful dream. Oh, I knew it couldn’t come true. You can’t 
take me now.” 

“If you forgive me, Bess, it’ll all come right in the end!” 
implored Venters. 

“It can’t be right. I’ll go back. After all, I loved him. 
He was good to me. I can’t forget that.” 

“If you go back to Oldring’s men I’ll follow you, and then 
they’ll kill me,” said Venters, hoarsely. 

“Oh no, Bern, you’ll not come. Let me go. It’s best for 
you to forget me. I’ve brought you only pain and dishonor.” 

She did not weep. But the sweet bloom and life died out 
of her face. She looked haggard and sad, all at once stunted; 
and her hands dropped listlessly; and her head drooped in slow, 
final acceptance of a hopeless fate. 

“Jane, look there!” cried Venters, in despairing grief. “Need 
you have told her? Where was all your kindness of heart? 


BLACK STAB. AND NIGHT 305 

This ^rl has had a wretched, lonely life. And I’d found a way 
to make her happy. You Ve killed it. You ’ve killed something 
sweet and pure and hopeful, just as sure as you breathe. ” 

^ Oh, Bern ! It was a slip. I never thought — I never thought !” 
replied Jane. “How could I tell she didn’t know?” 

Lassiter suddenly moved forward, and with the beautiful 
light on his face now strangely luminous, he looked at Jane and 
Venters and then let his soft, bright gaze rest on Bess. 

“Well, I reckon you’ve all had your say, an’ now it’s Lassiter’s 
turn. Why, I was jest prayin’ for this meetin’. Bess, jest 
look here.’’ 

Gently he touched her arm and turned her to face the others, 
and then outspread his great hand to disclose a shiny, battered 
gold locket. 

“Open it,” he said, with a singularly rich voice. 

Bess complied, but listlessly. 

“Jane — Venters — come closer,” went on Lassiter. “Take 
a look at the picture. Don’t you know the woman.^” 

Jane, after one glance, drew back. 

“Milly Erne!” she cried, wonderingly. 

Venters, with tingling pulse, with something growing on him, 
recognized in the faded miniature portrait the eyes of Milly Erne. 

“Yes, that’s Milly,” said Lassiter, softly. “Bess, did you 
ever see her face — look hard — with all your heart an’ soul.^” 

“The eyes seem to haunt me,” whispered Bess. “Oh, I 
can’t remember — they’re eyes of my dreams — but — but — ” 

Lassiter’s strong arm went round her, and he bent his head. 

“Child, I thought you’d remember her eyes. They’re the 
same beautiful eyes you ’d see if you looked in a mirror or a clear 
spring. They’re your mother’s eyes. You are Milly Erne’s 
child. Your name is Elizabeth Erne. You’re not Oldring’s 
daughter. You’re the daughter of Frank Erne, a man once 
my best friend. Look! Here’s his picture beside Milly ’s. He 


306 EIDERS OP THE PURPLE SAGE 

was handsome, an’ as fine an’ gallant a Southern gentleman as 
I ever seen, Frank come of an old family. You come of the 
best of blood, lass, an ’ blood tells. ” 

Bess slipped through his arm to her knees and hugged the 
locket to her bosom, and lifted wonderful, yearning eyes. 

It — can ’t — be — true ! ” 

‘‘Thank God, lass, it is true,” replied Lassiter. “Jane an’ 
Bern here-they both recognize Milly. They see Milly in you. 
They’re so knocked out they can’t tell you, that’s all.” 

“Who are you?'' whispered Bess. 

I reckon I’m Milly ’s brother, an’ your uncle! . • , Uncle 
Jim! Ain’t that fine.^^” 

Oh, I can’t believe — Don’t raise me! Bern, let me 
kneel. I see truth in your face— in Miss Withersteen’s. But 
let me hear it all all on my knees. Tell me how it’s true!” 

Well, Elizabeth, listen, ’ said Lassiter. “Before you was 
born your father made a mortal enemy of a Mormon named 
Dyer. They was both ministers an’ come to be rivals. Dyer 
stole your mother away from her home. She gave birth to you 
in Texas eighteen years ago. Then she was taken to Utah, from 
place to place, an ’ finally to the last border settlement — Cotton- 
woods. You was about three years old when you was taken 
away from Milly. She never laiew what had become of you. 
But she lived a good while hopin’ and prayin’ to have you again. 
Then she gave up an ’ died. An ’ I may as well put in here your 
lather died ten years ago. Well, I spent my time tracin’ Milly, 
an some months back I landed in Cottonwoods. An’ jest 
lately I learned all about you. I had a talk with Oldrin’ an’ 
told him you was dead, an’ he told me what I had so long been 
wantin to know. It was Dyer, of course, who stole you from 
Milly. Part reason he was sore because Milly refused to give 
you Mormon teachin’, but mostly he still hated Frank Erne so 
mfernally that he made a deal with Oldrin’ to take you an’ 


BLACK STAR AND NIGHT S07 

bring you up as an infamous rustler an’ rustler’s girl. The idea 
was to break Frank Erne’s heart if he ever came to Utah— to 

show him his daughter with a band of low rustlers. Well 

Oldrin’ took you, brought you up from childhood, an’ then made 
you his Masked Rider. He made you infamous. He kept 
that part of the contract, but he learned to love you as a daughter, 
an never let any but his own men know you was a girl. I heard 
him say that with my own ears, an ’ I saw his big eyes grow dim. 
He told me how he had guarded you always, kept you locked up 
in his absence, was always at your side or near you on those 
rides that made you famous on the sage. He said he an’ an old 
rustler whom he trusted had taught you how to read an’ write. 
They selected the books for you. Dyer had wanted you brought 
up the vilest of the vile! An’ Oldrin’ brought you up the inno- 
centest of the innocent. He said you didn’t know what vileness 
was. I can hear his big voice tremble now as he said it. He 
told me how the men — rustlers an’ outlaws — who from time to 
time tried to approach you familiarly — ^he told me how he shot 
them dead. I’m tellin’ you this ’specially because you’ve 
showed such shame — sayin’ you was nameless an’ all that. 
Nothin’ on earth can be wronger than that idea of yours. An’ 
the truth of it is here. Oldrin’ swore to me that if Dyer died, 
releasin’ the contract, he intended to hunt up your father an’ 
giv- you back to him. It seems Oldrin’ wasn’t all bad, an’ he 
sure loved you. ” 

Venters leaned forward in passionate remorse. 

‘‘Oh, Bess! I know Lassiter speaks the truth; For when I 
shot Oldring he dropped to his knees and fought with unearthly 
power to speak. And he said: ‘Man — why — didn’t — you — wait! 
Bess was — ’ Then he fell dead. And I’ve been haunted by 
his looks and words. Oh, Bess, what a strange, splendid thing 
for Oldring to do! It all seems impossible. But, dear, you 
really are not what you thought.” 


308 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

“Elizabeth Eme!” cried Jane Withersteen, “I loved your 
mother and I see her in you!” 

What had been incredible from the lips of men became, in 
the tone, look, and gesture of a woman, a wonderful truth for 
Bess. With little tremblings of all her slender body she rocked 
to and fro on her knees. The yearning wistfulness of her eyes 
changed to solemn splendor of joy. She believed. She was 
realizing happiness. And as the process of thought was slow, 
so were the variations of her expression. Her eyes reflected the 
transformation of her soul. Dark, brooding, hopeless belief- 
clouds of gloom— drifted, paled, vanished in glorious light. An 
exquisite rose flush— a glow— shone from her face as she slowly 
began to rise from her knees. A spirit uplifted her. All that 
she had held as base dropped from her. 

Venters watched her in joy too deep for words. By it he 
divmed something of what Lassiter’s revelation meant to Bess, 
but he knew he could only faintly understand. That moment 
when she seemed to be lifted by some spiritual transfiguration 
was the most beautiful moment of his life. She stood with parted 
quivering lips, with hands tightly clasping the locket to her 

ij j ^ ^ conscious pride of worth dignified the 

Old wild, tree grace and poise. 

“Uncle Jim!” she said, tremulously, with a different smile 
irom any Venters had ever seen on her face. 

Lassiter took her into his arms. 

“ I reckon. It ’s powerful fine to hear that, ” replied Lassiter, 
unsteadily. ’ 

Venters feeling his eyes grow hot and wet, turned away, 
and found himself looking at Jane Withersteen. He had almost 
forgotten her presence. Tenderness and sympathy were fast 
iding traces of her agitation. Venters read her mind — felt 
the reaction of her noble heart-saw the joy she was beginning 
to teel at the happiness of others. And suddenly blinded. 


BLACK STAB, AND NIGHT 309 

choked by his emotions, he turned from her also. He knew what 
she would do presently; she would make some magnificent 
amend for her anger; she would give some manifestation of her 
love; probably all in a moment, as she had loved Milly Erne, 
so would she love Elizabeth Erne. 

‘Y^ears to me, folks, that we’d better talk a little serious 
now, ” remarked Lassiter, at length. Time flies. ” 

“You’re right,” replied Venters, instantly. “I’d forgotten 
time— place — danger. Lassiter, you’re riding away. Jane’s 
leaving Withersteen House.^^” 

“Forever,” replied Jane. 

“I fired Withersteen House,” said Lassiter. 

‘Dyer?” questioned Venters, sharply. 

“I reckon where Dyer’s gone there won’t be any kidnappin’ 
of girls.” 

“Ah! I knew it. I told Judkins — And Tull?” went on 
Venters, passionately. 

“Tull wasn’t around when I broke loose. By now he’s 
likely on our trail with his riders.” 

“Lassiter, you’re going into the pass to hide till all this 
storm blows over?” 

“I reckon that’s Jane’s idea. I’m thinkin’ the storm’ll 
be a powerful long time bio win’ over. I was cornin’ to join 
you in Surprise Valley. You’ll go back now with me?” 

“No. I want to take Bess out of Utah. Lassiter, Bess 
found gold in the vall<^’'\ We’ve a saddle-bag full of gold. If 
we can reach Sterling — ” 

“Man! how ’re you ever goin’ to do that? Sterlin’ is a 
hundred miles.” 

“My plan is to ride on, keeping a sharp lookout. Somewhere 
up the trail we’ll take to the sage and go round Cottonwoods 
and then hit the trail again. ” 

“It’s a bad plan. You’ll kill the burros in two days.” 


310 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


“Then we’ll walk.” 

“That’s more bad an’ worse. Better go back down the pass 
with me.” 

“Lassiter, this girl has been hidden all her life in that lonely 
place,” went on Venters. “Oldring’s men are hunting me. 
We’d not be safe there any longer. Even if we would be I’d 
take this chance to get her out. I want to marry her. She 
shall have some of the pleasures of life — see cities and people. 
We’ve gold — we’ll be rich. Why, life opens sweet for both of us. 
And, by heaven, I ’ll get her out or lose my life in the attempt ! ” 

“I reckon if you go on with them burros you’ll lose your life 
all right. Tull will have riders all over this sage. You can’t 
get out on them burros. It’s a fool idea. That’s not doin’ 
best by the girl. Come with me an ’ take chances on the rustlers.” 

Lassiter’s cool argument made Venters waver, not in deter- 
mination to go, but in hope of success. 

Bess, I want you to know. Lassiter says the trip’s al- 
most useless now. I’m afraid he’s right. We’ve got about 
one chance in a hundred to go through. Shall we take it? 
Shall we go on?” 

“We’ll go on,” replied Bess. 

“That settles it, Lassiter.” 

Lassiter spread wide his hands, as if to signify he could do no 
more, and his face clouded. 

Venters felt a touch on his elbow. Jane stood beside him 
with a hand on his arm. She was smiling. Something radiated 
from^ her, and like an electric current accelerated the motion 
of his blood. 

“Bern, you’d be right to die rather than not take Elizabeth 
out of Utah — out of this wild country. You must do it. You’ll 
show her the great world, with all its wonders. Think how little 
she has seen! Think what delight is in store for her! You have 
gold; you will be free; you will make her happy. What a glorious 


BLACK STAR AND NIGHT 81 1 

prospect! I share it with you. I’ll think of you— dream of 
you — pray for you. 

Thank you, Jane,” replied Venters, trying to steady his 
voice. It does look bright. Oh, if we were only across that 
wide, open waste of sage!” 

“Bern, the trip’s as good as made. It’ll be safe— easy. 
It’ll be a glorious ride,” she said, softly. 

Venters stared. Had Jane’s troubles made her insane? 
Lassiter, too, acted queerly, all at once beginning to turn his 
sombrero round with hands that actually shook. 

“You are a rider. She is a rider. This will be the ride of 
your lives,” added Jane, in that same soft undertone, almost as 
if she were musing to herself. 

“Jane!” he cried. 

“I give you Black Star and Night!” 

Blacic Star and Night!’* he echoed. 

“It’s done. Lassiter, put our saddle-bags on the burros.” 

Only when Lassiter moved swiftly to execute her bidding did 
Venters’s clogged brain grasp at literal meanings. He leaped 
to catch Lassiter’s busy hands. 

“No, no — What are you doing?” he demanded, in a kind of 
fury. “I won’t take her racers. What do you think I am? 
It’d be monstrous. Lassiter! stop *t, I say! . . . You’ve got 
her to save. You’ve miles and miles to go. Tull is trailing 
you. There are rustlers in the pass. Give me back that saddle- 
bag!” : . . 

“Son — cool down,” returned Lassiter, in a voice he might 
have used to a child. But the grip with which he tore away 
Venters’s grasping hands was that of a giant. “Listen — you 
fool boy! Jane’s sized up the situation. The burros’ll do for 
us. We’ll sneak along an’ hide. I’ll take your dogs an’ your 
rifle. Why, it’s the trick. The blacks are yours, an’ sure as 
I can throw a gun you’re goin’ to ride safe out of the sage.” 

21 


sn 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


‘‘Jane — stop him — please stop him,” gasped Venters. “IVe 
lost my strength. I can’t do — anything. This ’s hell for me! 
Can’t you see that.^ I’ve ruined you — it was through me you 
lost all. You’ve only Black Star and Night left. You love 
these horses. Oh! I know how you must love them now! And — 
you’re trying to give them to me. To help me out of Utah! To 
save the girl I love!” 

“That will be my glory.” 

Then in the white, rapt face, in the unfathomable eyes. 
Venters saw Jane Withersteen in a supreme moment. This 
moment was one wherein she reached up to the height for which 
her noble soul had ever yearned. He, after disrupting the 
calm tenor of her peace, after bringing down on her head the 
implacable hostility of her churchmen, after teaching her a bitter 
lesson of life — he was to be her salvation. And he turned away 
again, this time shaken to the core of his soul. Jane Withersteen 
was the incarnation of selflessness. He experienced wonder and 
terror, exquisite pain and rapture. What were all the shocks 
life had dealt him compared to the thought of such loyal and 
generous friendship.? 

And instantly, as if by some divine insight, he knew himself 
in the remaking — tried, found wanting; but stronger, better, 
surer — and he wheeled to Jane Withersteen, eager, joyous, 
passionate, wild, exalted. He bent to her; he left tears and kisses 
on her hands. 

“Jane, I — I can’t find words — ^now,” he said. “I’m beyond 
words. Only — I understand. And I’ll take the blacks.” 

“Don’t be losin’ no more time,” put in Lassiter. “I ain’t 
certain, but I think I seen a speck up the sage-slope. Mebbe 
I was mistaken. But, anyway, we must all be movin’. I’ve 
shortened the stirrups on Black Star. Put Bess on him. ” 

Jane Withersteen held out her arms. 

“Elizabeth Erne!” she cried, and Bess flew to her. 


BLACK STAR AND NIGHT 313 

How inconceivably strange and beautiful it was for Venters 
tO see Bess clasped to Jane Withersteen’s breast! 

Then he leaped astride Night. 

« straight on up the slope, ” Lassiter was saying, 

“an’ if you don’t meet any riders keep on till you’re a few miles 
from the^ village, then cut off in the sage an’ go round to the trail. 
But you’ll most likely meet riders with Tull. Jest keep right on 
till you’re jest out of gunshot an’ then make your cut-off into 
the sage. They’ll ride after you, but it won’t be no use. You 
can ride, an Bess can ride. When you’re out of reach turn on 
round to the west, an ’ hit the trail somewhere. Save the bosses 
all you can, but don’t be afraid. Black Star and Night are good 
for a hundred miles before sundown, if you have to push them. 
You can get to Sterlin’ by night if you want. But better make 
it along about to-morrow mornin’. When you get through the 
Notch on the Glaze trail, swing to the right. You’ll be able to 
see both Glaze an ’ Stone Bridge. Keep away from them villages. 
You won’t run no risk of meetin’ any of Oldrin’s rustlers from 
Sterlin’ on. You ’ll find water in them deep hollows north of the 
Notch. There’s an old trail there, not much used, an’ it leads 
to Sterlin’. That’s your trail. An’ one thing more. If Tull 
pushes you — or keeps on persistent-like, for a few miles — jest 
let the blacks out an ’ lose him an ’ his riders. ” 

“Lassiter, may we meet again!” said Venters, in a deep voice. 

“Son, it ain’t likely — it ain’t likely. Well, Bess Oldrin’ — 
Masked Rider — ^Elizabeth Erne — now you climb on Black Star. 
I’ve heard you could ride. Well, every rider loves a good hoss. 
An’, lass, there never was but one that could beat Black 
Star.” 

“Ah, Lassiter, there never was any horse that could beat 
Black Star, ” said Jane, with the old pride. 

“I often wondered — mebbe Venters rode out that race when 
he brought back the blacks. Son, was Wrangle the best hoss.^” 


314 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

“No, Lassiter,” replied Venters. For this lie he had his 
reward in Jane’s quick smile. 

‘‘Well, well, my hoss-sense ain’t always right. An’ here I’m. 
talkin’ a lot, wastin’ time. It ain’t so easy to find an’ lose a 
pretty niece all in one hour! Elizabeth— good-by!” 

“Oh, Uncle Jim! . . . Good-by!” 

“Elizabeth Erne, be happy! Good-by,” said Jane. 

“Good-by — oh — good-by!” 

In lithe, supple action Bess swung up to Black Star’s saddle. 

^ Jane Withersteen ! . . . Good-by !” called Venters, hoarsely. 
“Bern — Bess — riders of the purple sage — ^good-by!” 


CHAPTER XXII 


EIDEES OF THE PXJEPLE SAGE 

B lack star and Night, answering to spur, swept swiftly 
westward along the white, slow-rising, sage-bordered trail. 
Venters heard a mournful howl from Ring, but Whitie was 
silent. The blacks settled iijito their fleet, long-striding gallop. 
The wind sweetly fanned Venters’s hot face. From the summit 
of the first low-swelling ridge he looked back. Lassiter waved his 
hand; Jane waved her scarf. Venters replied by standing in 
his stirrups and holding high his sombrero. Then the dip of 
the ridge hid them. From the height of the next he turned once 
more. Lassiter, Jane, and the burros had disappeared. They 
had gone down into the pass. Venters felt a sensation of 
irreparable loss. 

‘‘Bern — look!” called Bess, pointing up the long slope. 

A small, dark, moving dot split the line where purple sage 
met blue sky. That dot was a band of riders. 

“Pull the black, Bess.” 

They slowed from gallop to canter, then to trot. The fresh 
and eager horses did not like the check. 

“Bern, Black Star has great eyesight.” 

“I wonder if they’re Tull’s riders. They might be rustlers. 
But it’s all the same to us.” 

The black dot grew to be a dark patch moving under low 
dust-clouds. It grew all the time, though very slowly. There 
were long periods when it was in plain sight, and intervals when 


316 EIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

it dropped behind the sage. The blacks trotted for half an hour, 
for another half-hour, and still the moving patch appeared to 
stay on the horizon line. Gradually, however, as time passed, 
it began to enlarge, to creep down the slope, to encroach upon 
the intervening distance. 

“Bess, what do you make them out?” asked Venters. ‘‘I 
don’t think they’re rustlers.’" 

“They’re sage-riders,” replied Bess. “I see a white horse 
and several grays. Rustlers seldom ride any horses but bays 
and blacks.” 

“That white horse is Tull’s. Pull the black, Bess. I’ll get 
down and cinch up. We’re in for some riding. Are you afraid? ” 

“Not now,” answered the girl, smiling. 

“You needn’t be. Bess, you don’t weigh enough to make 
Black Star know you’re on him. I won’t be able to stay with 
you. You’ll leave Tull and his riders as if they were standing 
still.” 

“How about you?” 

“Never fear. If I can’t stay with you I can still laugh at 
Tull.” 

“ Look, Bern ! They ’ ve stopped on that ridge. They see us.” 

“Yes. But we’re too far yet for them to make out who we 
are. They’ll recognize the blacks first. We’ve passed most 
of the ridges and the thickest sage. Now, when I give the word, 
let Black Star go and ride!” 

Venters calculated that a mile or more still intervened between 
them and the riders. They were approaching at a swift canter. 
Soon Venters recognized Tull’s white horse, and concluded that 
the riders had likewise recognized Black Star and Night. But 
it would be impossible for Tull yet to see that the blacks were 
not ridden by Lassiter and Jane. Venters noted that Tull 
and the line of horsemen, perhaps ten or twelve in number, 
stopped several times and evidently looked hard down the slope. 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 317 

It must have been a puzzling circumstance for Tull. Venters 
laughed grimly at the thought of what Tull’s rage would be when 
he finally discovered the trick. Venters meant to sheer out into 
the sage before Tull could possibly be sure who rode the blacks. 

The gap closed to a distance of half a mile. Tull halted. 
His riders came up and formed a dark group around him. Ven- 
ters thought he saw him wave his arms, and was certain of it 
when the riders dashed into the sage, to right and left of the 
trail. Tull had anticipated just the move held in mind by 
Venters. 

“Now Bess!” shouted Venters. “Strike north. Go round 
those riders and turn west. ” 

Black Star sa ed over the low sage, and in a few leaps got into 
his stride and was running. Venters spurred Night after him. 
It was hard going in the sage. The horses could run as well 
there, but keen eyesight and judgment must constantly be used 
by the riders in choosing ground. And continuous swerving 
from aisle to aisle between the brush, and leaping little washes 
and mounds of the pack-rats, and breaking through sage, made 
rough riding. When Venters had turned into a long aisle he 
had time to look up at Tull’s riders. They were now strung out 
into an extended line, riding northeast. And, as Venters and 
Bess were holding due north, this meant, if the horses of Tull 
and his riders had the speed and the staying power, they would 
head the blacks and turn them back down the slope. Tull’s 
men were not saving their mounts; they were driving them 
desperately. Venters feared only an accident to Black Star or 
Night, and skilful riding would mitigate the possibility of that. 
One glance ahead served to show him that Bess could pick a 
course through the sage as well as he. She looked neither back 
nor at the running riders, and bent forward over Black Star’s 
neck and studied the ground ahead. 

It struck Venters, presently, after he had glanced up from 


318 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


time to time, that Bess was drawing away from him as he had 
expected. He had, however, only thought of the light weight 
Black Star was carrying, and of his superior speed; he saw now 
that the black was being ridden as never before, except when 
Jerry Card lost the race to Wrangle. How easily, gracefully, 
naturally Bess sat her saddle! She could ride! Suddenly Ven- 
ters remembered she had said she could ride. But he had not 
dreamed she was capable of such superb horsemanship. Then 
all at once, flashing over him, thrilling him, came the recollec- 
tion that Bess was Oldring’s Masked Rider. 

He forgot Tull — the running riders — the race. He let Night 
have a free rein and felt him lengthen out to suit himself, knowing 
he would keep to Black Star’s course, knowing that had been 
chosen by the best rider now on the upland sage. For Jerry 
Card was dead. And fame had rivaled him with only one rider, 
and that was the slender girl who now swung so easily with Black 
Star’s stride. Venters had abhorred her notoriety, but now he 
took passionate pride in her skill, her daring, her power over a 
horse. And he delved into his memory, recalling famous rides 
which he had heard related in the villages and round the camp- 
fires. C’ firing’s Masked Rider! Many times this strange rider, 
at once well known and unknown, had escaped pursuers by 
matchless riding. He had run the gantlet of vigilantes down 
the main street of Stone Bridge, leaving dead horses and dead 
rustlers behind. He had jumped his horse over the Gerber 
Wash, a deep, wide ravine separating the fields of Glaze from 
the wild sage. He had been surrounded north of Sterling; and 
he had broken through the line. How often had been told the 
story of day stampedes, of night raids, of pursuit, and then how 
the Masked Rider, swift as the wind, was gone in the sage! A 
fleet, dark horse — a slender, dark form — a black mask — a driving 
run down the slope — a dot on the purple sage — a shadowy, 
muffled steed disappearing in the night! 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 319 

And this Masked Rider of the uplands had been Elizabeth 
Erne! 

The sweet sage wind rushed in Venters’s face and sang a 
song in his ears. He heard the dull, rapid beat of Night’s hoofs; 
he saw Black Star drawing away, farther and farther. He realized 
both horses were swinging to the west. Then gunshots in the 
rear reminded him of Tull. Venters looked back. Far to the 
side, dropping behind, trooped the riders. They were shooting. 
Venters saw no puffs of dust, heard no whistling bullets. He was 
out of range. When he looked back again Tull’s riders had 
given up pursuit. The best they could do, no doubt, had been 
to get near enough to recognize who really rode the blacks. 
Venters saw Tull drooping in his saddle. 

Then Venters pulled Night out of his running stride. Those 
few miles had scarcely warmed the black, but Venters wished to 
save him. Bess turned, and, though she was far away. Venters 
caught the white glint of her waving hand. He held Night to 
a trot and rode on, seeing Bess and Black Star, and the sloping 
upward stretch of sage, and from time to time the receding black 
riders behind. Soon they disappeared behind a ridge, and he 
turned no more. They would go back to Lassiter’s trail and 
follow it, and follow in vain. So Venters rode on, with the wind 
growing sweeter to taste and smell, and the purple sage richer 
and the sky bluer in his sight; and the song in his ears ringing. 
By and by Bess halted to wait for him, and he knew she had 
come to the trail. When he reached her it was to smile at sight 
of her standing with arms round Black Star’s neck. 

“Oh! Bern! I love him!” she cried. “He’s beautiful; he 
knows; and how he can run! I’ve had fast horses. But Black 
Star! . . . Wrangle never beat him!” 

“I’m wondering if I didn’t dream that. Bess, the blacks 
are grand. What it must have cost Jane — ah! — well, when we 
get out of this wild country with Star and Night, back to my old 


320 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

home in Illinois, we’ll buy a beautiful farm with meadows and 
springs and cool shade. There we’ll turn the horses fre^free 
to roam and browse and drink — never to feel a spur again 
never to be ridden!” 

“I would like that,” said Bess. 

They rested. Then, mounting, they rode side by side up 
the white trail. The sun rose higher behind them. Far to the 
left a low line of green marked the site of Cottonwoods. Venters 
looked once and looked no more. Bess gazed only straight 
ahead. They put the blacks to the long, swinging rider’s canter, 
and at times pulled them to a trot, and occasionally to a walk. 
The hours passed, the miles slipped behind, and the wall of rock 
loomed in the fore. The Notch opened wide. It was a rugged, 
stony pass, but with level and open trail, and Venters and Bess 
ran the blacks throught it. An old trail led off to the right, 
taking the line of the wall, and this Venters knew to be the trail 
mentioned by Lassiter. 

The little hamlet Glaze, a white and green patch in the vast 
waste of purple, lay miles down a slope much like the Cot- 
tonwoods slope, only this descended to the west. And miles 
farther west a faint green spot marked the location of Stone 
Bridge. All the rest of that world was seemingly smooth, 
undulating sage, with no ragged lines of canons to accentuate 
its wildness. 

“Bess, we’re safe— we’re free!” said Venters. “We’re alone 
on the sage. We’re half-way to Sterling.” 

“Ah! I wonder how it is with Lassiter and Miss Wither- 
steen. ” 

“Never fear, Bess. He’ll outwit Tull. He’ll get away and 
hide her safely. He might climb into Surprise Valley, but I 
don’t think he’ll go so far.” 

“Bern, will we ever find any place like our beautiful valley?” 

“No. But, dear, listen! We’ll go back some day, after 


WHEN HE AND BESS RODE UP OITT OF THE HOLLOW THE SUN WAS LOW 






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RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE Sn 

years ten years. Then we’ll be forgotten. And our valley 
will be just as we left it. ” 

‘‘What if Balancing Rock falls and closes the outlet to the 
pass?” 

“I’ve thought of that. I’ll pack in ropes and ropes. And 
if the outlet’s closed we’ll climb up the cliffs and over them to 
the valley and go down on rope ladders. It could be done. I 
know just where to make the climb, and I’ll never forget.” 

“Oh yes, let us go back!” 

“It’s something sweet to look forward to. Bess, it’s like all 
the future looks to me. ” 

“Call me — ^Elizabeth,” she said, shyly. 

“Elizabeth Erne! It’s a beautiful name. But I’ll never 
forget Bess. Do you know — have you thought that very soon 
— by this time to-morrow — you will be Elizabeth Venters?” 

So they rode on down the old trail. And the sun sloped to 
the west, and a golden sheen lay on the sage. The hours sped 
now; the afternoon waned. Often they rested the horses. The 
glisten of a pool of water in a hollow caught Venters’s eye, and 
here he unsaddled the blacks and let them roll and drink and 
browse. When he and Bess rode up out of the hollow the sun 
was low, a crimson ball, and the valley seemed veiled in purple 
fire and smoke. It was that short time when the sun appeared 
to rest before setting, and silence, like a cloak of invisible life, 
lay heavy on all that shimmering world of sage. 

They watched the sim begin to bury its red curve under the 
dark horizon. 

“We’ll ride on till late,” he said. “Then you can sleep a 
little, while I watch and graze the horses. And we’ll ride into 
Sterling early to-morrow. We’ll be married! . . . We’ll be 
in time to catch the stage. We’ll tie Black Star and Night 
behind — and then — for a country not wild and terrible like this!” 

“Oh! Bern! . . . But look! The sun is setting on the 


322 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

sage — the last time for us till we dare come again to the Utah 
border. Ten years! Oh, Bern, look, so you will never forget! 

Slumbering, fading purple fire burned over the undulating 
sage ridges. Long streaks and bars and shafts and spears fringed 
the far western slope. Drifting, golden veils mingled with low, 
purple shadows. Colors and shades changed in slow, wondrous 
transformation. 

Suddenly Venters was startled by a low, rumbling roar 
so low that it was like the roar in a sea-shell. 

“Bess, did you hear anything?” he whispered. 

“No.” 

“Listen! . . . Maybe I only imagined — Ah/'' 

Out of the east or north, from remote distance, breathed an 
infinitely low, continuously long sound — deep, weird, detonating, 
thundering, deadening — dying. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


THE FALL OF BALANCING BOCK 

T hrough tear-blurred sight Jane Withersteen watched 
Venters and Elizabeth Erne and the black racers disappear 
over the ridge of sage. 

^ gone! said Lassiter. ‘‘An’ they’re safe now. 

An’ there’ll never be a day of their cornin’ happy lives but 
what they’ll remember Jane Withersteen an’— an’ Uncle Jim! 
... I reckon, Jane, we’d better be on our way.” 

^ The burros obediently wheeled and started down the break 
with little, cautious steps, but Lassiter had to leash the whining 
dogs and lead them. J ane felt herself bound in a feeling that was 
neither listlessness nor indifference, yet which rendered her in- 
capable of interest. She was still strong in body, but emotionally 
tired. That hour at the entrance to Deception Pass had been 
the climax of her suffering — the flood of her wrath — the last of 
her sacrifice— the supremity of her love— and the attainment of 
peace. She thought that if she had little Fay she would not ask 
any more of life. 

Like an automaton she followed Lassiter down the steep trail 
of dust and bits of weathered stone; and when the little slides 
moved with her or piled around her knees, she experienced no 
alarm. Vague relief came to her in the sense of being inclosed 
between dark stone walls, deep hidden from the glare of sun, from 
the glistening sage. Lassiter lengthened the stirrup straps on 
one of the burros and bade her mount and ride close to him. 


324 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

She was to keep the burro from cracking his little hard hoofs on 
stones. Then she was riding on between dark, gleaming walls. 
There were quiet and rest and coolness in this canon. She noted 
indifferently that they passed close under shady, bulging shelves 
of cliff, through patches of grass and sage and thicket and groves 
of slender trees, and over white, pebbly washes, and around masses 
of broken rock. The burros trotted tirelessly; the dogs, once 
more free, pattered tirelessly; and Lassiter led on with never a 
stop, and at every open place he looked back. The shade under 
the walls gave place to sunlight. And presently they came to 
a dense thicket of slender trees, through which they pressed to 
rich, green grass and water. Here Lassiter rested the burros 
for a little while, but he was restless, uneasy, silent, always 
listening, peering under the trees. She dully reflected that 
enemies were behind them — ^before them; still the thought 
awakened no dread or concern or interest. 

At his bidding she mounted and rode on close to the heels 
of his burro. The canon narrowed; the walls lifted their rugged 
rims higher; and the sun shone down hot from the center of the 
blue stream of sky above. Lassiter traveled slower, with more 
exceeding care as to the ground he chose, and he kept speaking 
low to the dogs. They were now hunting-dogs — ^keen, alert, 
suspicious, sniffing the warm breeze. The monotony of the 
yellow walls broke in change of color and smooth surface, and the 
rugged outline of rims grew craggy. Splits appeared in deep 
breaks, and gorges running at right angles, and then the pass 
opened wide at a junction of intersecting canons. 

Lassiter dismounted, led his burro, called the dogs close, 
and proceeded at snail pace through dark masses of rock and 
dense thickets under the left wall. Long he watched and listened 
before venturing to cross the mouths of side canons. At length 
he halted, tied his burro, lifted a warning hand to Jane, and then 
slipped away among the boulders, and, followed by the stealthy 


THE FALL OF BALANCING ROCK 325 

dogs, disappeared from sight. The time he remained absent 
was neither short nor long to Jane Withersteen. 

When he reached her side again he was pale, and his lips 
were set in a hard line, and his gray eyes glittered coldly. Bidding 
her dismount, he led the burros into a covert of stones and cedars, 
and tied them. 

^ “Jane, I Ve run into the fellers I’ve been lookin’ for, an’ I’m 
goin’ after them,” he said. 

“Why.f^” she asked. 

“I reckon I won’t take time to tell you.” 

Couldn’t we slip by without being seen?” 

“Likely enough. But that ain’t my game. An’ I’d like 
to know, in case I don’t come back, what you’ll do.” 

“What can I do?” 

“I reckon you can go back to Tull. Or stay in the pass an’ 
be taken off by rustlers. Which ’ll you do?” 

“I don’t know. I can’t think very well. But I believe 
I ’d rather be taken off by rustlers. ” 

Lassiter sat down, put his head in his hands, and remained 
for a few moments in what appeared to be deep and painful 
thought. When he lifted his face it was haggard, lined, cold as 
sculptured marble. 

I 11 go. I only mentioned that chance of my not cornin’ 
back. I ’m pretty sure to come. ” 

“Need you risk so much? Must you fight more? Haven’t 
you shed enough blood?” 

“I’d like to tell you why I’m goin’,” he continued, in cold- 
ness he had seldom used to her. She remarked it, but it was the 
same to her as if he had spoken with his old, gentle warmth. 
“But I reckon I won’t. Only, I’ll say that mercy an’ goodness, 
such as is in you, though they’re the grand things in human 
nature, can’t be lived up to on this Utah border. Life’s hell 
out here. You think — or you used to think — that your religion 


326 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

made this life heaven. Mebbe them scales on your eyes has 
dropped now. Jane, I wouldn’t have you no different, an 
that’s why I’m goin’ to try to hide you somewhere in this pass. 
I’d like to hide many more women, for I’ve come to see there are 
more like you among your people. An’ I’d like you to see jest 
how hard an’ cruel this border life is. It’s bloody. You d 
think churches an’ churchmen would make it better. They 
make it worse. You give names to things bishops, elders, 
ministers, Mormonism, duty, faith, glory. You dream-^r 
you’re driven mad. I’m a man, an’ I know. I name fanatics, 
followers, blind women, oppressors, thieves, ranchers, rustlers, 
riders. An’ we have — what you’ve lived through these last 
months. It can’t be helped. But it can t last always. An 
remember this — some day the border 11 be better, cleaner, for 
the ways of men like Lassiter!” 

She saw him shake his tall form erect, look at her strangely 
and steadfastly, and then, noiselessly, . stealthily slip away amid 
the rocks and trees. Ring and Whitie, not being bidden to follow, 
remained with Jane. She felt extreme weariness, yet somehow 
it did not seem to be of her body. And she sat down in the shade 
and tried to think. She saw a creeping lizard, cactus flowers, 
the drooping burros, the resting dogs, an eagle high over a yellow 
crag. Once the meanest flower, a color, the flight of a bee, or 
any living thing had given her deepest joy. Lassiter had gone off, 
yielding to his incurable blood lust, probably to his own death; 
and she was sorry, but there was no feeling in her sorrow. 

Suddenly from the mouth of the canon just beyond her rang 
ont a clear, sharp report of a rifle. Echoes clapped. Then fol- 
lowed a piercingly high yell of anguish, quickly breaking. Again 
echoes clapped, in grim imitation. Dull revolver shots — hoarse 
yells— pound of hoofs — shrill neighs of horses — commingling of 
echoes — and again silence! Lassiter must be busily engaged, 
thought Jane, and no chill trembled over her, no blanching 


THE FALL OF BALANCING ROCK 327 

tightened her skin. Yes, the border was a bloody place. But 
life had always been bloody. Men were blood-spillers. Phases 
of the history of the world flashed through her mind— Greek 
and Roman wars, dark, mediaeval times, the crimes in the 
name of religion. On sea, on land, everywhere — shooting, 
stabbing, cursing, clashing, fighting men! Greed, power, oppres- 
sion, fanaticism, love, hate, revenge, justice, freedom — for these, 
men killed one another. 

She lay there under the cedars, gazing up through the deli- 
cate lace-like foliage at the blue sky, and she thought and won- 
dered and did not care. 

More rattling shots disturbed the noonday quiet. She 
heard a sliding of weathered rock, a hoarse shout of warning, a 
yell of alarm, again the clear, sharp crack of the rifle, and another 
cry that was a cry of death. Then rifle reports pierced a dull 
volley of revolver shots. Bullets whizzed over Jane’s hiding- 
place; one struck a stone and whined away in the air. After 
that, for a time, succeeded desultory shots; and then they ceased 
under long, thundering fire from heavier guns. 

Sooner or later, then, Jane heard the cracking of horses’ 
hoofs on the stones, and the sound came nearer and nearer. 
Silence intervened until Lassiter’s soft, jingling step assured her 
of his approach. When he appeared he was covered with blood. 

‘‘All right, Jane,” he said. ‘T come back. An’ don’t worry.” 

With water from a canteen he washed the blood from his 
face and hands. 

“Jane, hurry now. Tear my scarf in two, an’ tie up these 
places. That hole through my hand is some inconvenient, 
worse ’n this cut over my ear. There — you’re doin’ fine! Not 
a bit nervous — ^no tremblin’. I reckon I ain’t done your courage 
justice. I’m glad you’re brave jest now — ^you’ll need to be. 
Well, I was hid pretty good, enough to keep them from shootin’ 
me deep, but they was slingin’ lead close all the time. I used 


328 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

up all the rifle shells, an’ then I went after them. Mebbe you 
heard. It was then I got hit. I had to use up every shell in my 
own guns, an’ they did, too, as I seen. Rustlers an’ Mormons, 
Jane! An’ now I’m packin’ five bullet holes in my carcass, an 
guns without shells. Hurry, now.” 

He unstrapped the saddle-bags from the burros, slipped the 
saddles and let them lie, turned the burros loose, and, calling the 
dogs, led the way through stones and cedars to an open where 
two horses stood. 

“Jane, are you strong?” he asked. 

“I think so. I’m not tired,” Jane replied. 

“I don’t mean that way. Can you bear up?” 

“I think I can bear anything. ” 

“I reckon you look a little cold an’ thick. So I m preparin 
you.” 

“For what?” 

“I didn’t tell you why I jest had to go after them fellers. 
I couldn’t tell you. I believe you’d have died. But I can tell 
you now — if you’ll bear up under a shock?” 

“Go on, my friend.” 

“7’t;e got little Fay! Aliv^bad hurt— but she’ll live!’’ 

Jane Withersteen’s dead-locked feeling, rent by Lassiter s 
deep, quivering voice, leaped into an agony of sensitive life. 

“Here,” he added, and showed her where little Fay lay on 
the grass. 

Unable to speak, unable to stand, Jane dropped on her knees. 
By that long, beautiful golden hair Jane recognized the beloved 
Fay. But Fay’s loveliness was gone. Her face was drawn and 
looked old with grief. But she was not dead ^her heart beat 
and Jane Withersteen gathered strength and lived again. 

“You see I jest had to go after Fay,” Lassiter was saying, 
as he knelt to bathe her little pale face. “But I reckon I don’t 
want no more choices like the one I had to make. There was a 


THE FALL OF BALANCING ROCK 329 

crippled feller in that bunch, Jane. Mebbe Venters crippled 
him. Anyway, that’s why they were holdin’ up here. I seen 
little Fay first thing, an’ was hard put to it to figure out a way 
to get her. An’ I wanted bosses, too. I had to take chances. 
So I crawled close to their camp. One feller jumped a hoss with 
little Fay, an’ when I shot him, of course she dropped. She’s 
stunned W’ bruised — she fell right on her head — Jane, she’s 
cornin’ to! She ain’t bad hurt!” 

Fay’s long lashes fluttered; her eyes opened. At first they 
seemed glazed over. They looked dazed by pain. Then they 
quickened, darkened, to shine with intelligence — bewilderment 
— memory — and sudden wonderful joy. 

‘‘Muwer — Jane!” she whispered. 

“Oh, little Fay, little Fay!” cried Jane, lifting, clasping the 
child to her. 

we’ve got to rustle!” said Lassiter, in grim coolness. 
“Jane, look down the pass!” 

Across the mounds of rock and sage Jane eaught sight of a 
band of riders filing out of the narrow neck of the pass; and in 
the lead was a white horse, which, even at a distance of a mile 
or more, she knew. 

“Tull!” she almost screamed. 

“I reckon. But, Jane, we’ve still got the game in our hands. 
They’re ridin’ tired bosses. Venters likely give them a chase. 
He wouldn’t forget that. An’ we’ve fresh bosses.” 

Hurriedly he strapped on the saddle-bags, gave quick glance 
to girths and cinches and stirrups, then leaped astride. 

“Lift little Fay up,” he said. 

With shaking arms Jane complied. 

“Get back your nerve, woman! This’s life or death now. 
Mind that. Climb up! Keep your wits. Stick close to me. 
Watch where your boss’s goin’ an’ ride!” 

Somehow Jane mounted; somehow found strength to hold 


330 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

the reins, to spur, to cling on, to ride. A horrible quaking, craven 
fear possessed her soul. Lassiter led the swift flight across the 
wide space, over washes, through sage, into a narrow canon where 
the rapid clatter of hoofs rapped sharply from the walls. The 
wind roared in her ears; the gleaming cliffs swept by; trail and 
sage and grass moved under her. Lassiter’s bandaged, blood- 
stained face turned to her; he shouted encouragement; he looked 
back down the pass; he spurred his horse. Jane clung on, 
spurring likewise. And the horses settled from hard, furious 
gallop into a long-striding, driving run. She had never ridden 
at anything like that pace; desperately she tried to get the swing 
of the horse, to be of some help to him in that race, to see the 
best of the ground and guide him into it. But she failed of 
everything except to keep her seat in the saddle, and to spur and 
spur. At times she closed her eyes, unable to bear sight of 
Fay’s golden curls streaming in the wind. She could not pray; 
she could not rail; she no longer cared for herself. All of life, of 
good, of use in the world, of hope in heaven, centered in Lassi- 
ter’s ride with little Fay to safety. She would have tried to turn 
the iron- jawed brute she rode; she would have given herself to 
that relentless, dark-browed Tull. But she knew Lassiter would 
turn with her, so she rode on and on. 

Whether that run was of moments or hours Jane Withersteen 
could not tell. Lassiter’s horse covered her with froth that 
blew back in white streams. Both horses ran their limit, were 
allowed to slow down in time to save them, and went on dripping, 
heaving, staggering. 

“Oh! Lassiter, we must run — we must run!” 

He looked back, saying nothing. The bandage had blown 
from his head, and blood trickled down his face. He was bowing 
under the strain of injuries, of the ride, of his burden. Yet 
how cool and gray he looked — how intrepid! 

The horses walked, trotted, galloped, ran, to fall again to 


the fall of balancing rock 331 

walk Hours sped or dragged. Time was au instant-an 
fot S Withersteen felt hell pursuing her, and dared 

not Jook back for fear she would fall from her horse. 

Oh, Lassiter! Is he coming?” 

T -f shoulder, but said no word. 

Little Fay s golden hair floated on the breeze. The sun shone; 
the walls gleamed; the sage glistened. And then it seemed the 
sun vanished, the walls shaded, the sage paled. The horses 

tu to Shadows 
gathered under shelving cliffs. The canon turned, brightened, 
opened mto long, wide, wall-inclosed valley. Again the sun, 
lowermg m the west, reddened the sage. Far ahead round, 
scrawled stones appeared to block the pass. 

“Bear up, Jane, bear up!” called Lassiter. “It’s our game 
if you don ’t weaken. ” ’ 

“Lassiter ! Go on — alone! Save little Fay ! ” 

“Only with you!” 

“Oh!— I’m a coward— a miserable coward! I can’t fight or 
tomk or hope or pray! I’m lost! Oh, Lassiter, look back! 
Is he coming? I’ll not— hold out—’’ 

“Keep your breath, woman, an’ ride not for yourself or for 
me but for Fay!” 

A last breaking run across the sage brought Lassiter’s horse 
to a walk. 

“He’s done,” said the rider. 

“Oh, no — ^no!” moaned Jane. 

“Look back, Jane, look back. Three— four miles we’ve 
come across this valley, an’ no Tull yet in sight. Only a few 
miles more!” 

Jane looked back over the long stretch of sage, and found 
the narrow gap in the wall, out of which came a file of dark 
horses with a white horse in the lead. Sight of the riders acted 
upon Jane as a stimulant. The weight of cold, horrible terror 


SS2 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

lessened. And, gazing forward at the dogs, at Lassiter’s limp- 
ing horse, at the blood on his face, at the rocks growing nearer, 
last at Fay’s golden hair, the ice left her veins, and slowly, 
strangely, she gained hold of strength that she believed would 
see her to the safety Lassiter promised. And, as she gazed, 
Lassiter’s horse stumbled and fell. 

He swung his leg and slipped from the saddle. 

“Jane, take the child,” he said, and lifted Fay up. Jane 
clasped her with arms suddenly strong. “They’re gainin’,” 
went on Lassiter, as he watched the pursuing riders. “But 
we’ll beat ’em yet.” 

Turning with Jane’s bridle in his hand, he was about to start 
when he saw the saddle-bag on the fallen horse. 

“I’ve jest about got time,” he muttered, and with swift 
fingers that did not blunder or fumble he loosened the bag and 
threw it over his shoulder. Then he started to run, leading 
Jane’s horse, and he ran, and trotted, and walked, and ran again. 
Close ahead now Jane saw a rise of bare rock. Lassiter reached 
it, searched along the base, and, finding a low place, dragged the 
weary horse up and over round, smooth stone. Looking back- 
ward, Jane saw Tull’s white horse not a mile distant, with 
riders strimg out in a long line behind him. Looking forward, 
she saw more valley to the right, and to the left a towering cliff. 
Lassiter pulled the horse and kept on. 

Little Fay lay in her arms with wide open eyes — eyes which 
were still shadowed by pain, but no longer fixed, glazed in terror. 
The golden curls blew across Jane’s lips; the little hands feebly 
clasped her arm; a ghost of a troubled, trustful smile hovered 
round the sweet lips. And Jgine Withersteen awoke to the spirit 
of a lioness. 

Lassiter was leading the horse up a smooth slope toward 
cedar-trees of twisted and bleached appearance. Among these 
he halted. 


THE FALL OF BALANCING ROCK 333 


‘‘Jane, give me the girl an’ get down,” he said. As if it 
wrenched him he unbuckled the empty black guns with a strange 
air of finality. He then received Fay in his arms and stood a 
moment looking backward. Tull’s white horse mounted the 
ridge of round stone, and several bays or blacks followed. ‘T 
wonder what he’ll think when he sees them empty guns. Jane, 
bring your saddle-bag and climb after me.” 

A glistening, wonderful bare slope, with little holes, swelled 
up and up to lose itself in a frowning yellow cliff. Jane closely 
watched her steps and climbed behind Lassiter. He moved 
slowly. Perhaps he was only husbanding his strength. But she 
saw drops of blood on the stone, and then she knew. They 
climbed and climbed without looking back. Her breast labored; 
she began to feel as if little points of fiery steel were penetrating 
her side into her lungs. She heard the panting of Lassiter, and 
the quicker panting of the dogs. 

“Wait — here,” he said. 

Before her rose a bulge of stone, nicked with little cut steps, 
and above that a corner of yellow wall, and overhanging that a 
vast, ponderous cliff. 

The dogs pattered up, disappeared round the corner. Lassiter 
mounted the steps with Fay, and he swayed like a drunken man, 
and, he too, disappeared. But instantly he returned alone, and 
half ran, half slipped down to her. 

Then from below pealed up hoarse shouts of angry men. 
Tull and several of his riders had reached the spot where Lassiter 
had parted with his guns. 

“You’ll need that breath— mebbe!” said Lassiter, facing 
downward, with glittering eyes. 

“Now, Jane, the last pull,” he went on. “Walk up them 
little steps. I’ll follow an’ steady you. Don’t think. Jest go. 
Little Fay’s above. Her eyes are open. She jest said to me, 
^ Whereas muvver Janef^^^ 


334 


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 


Without a fear or a tremor or a slip or a touch of Las- 
siter’s hand, Jane Withersteen walked up that ladder of cut 
steps. 

He pushed her round the comer of wall. Fay lay, with 
wide staring eyes, in the shade of a gloomy wall. The dogs 
waited. Lassiter picked up the child and turned into a dark 
cleft. It zigzagged. It widened. It opened. Jane was amazed 
at a wonderfully smooth and steep incline leading up between 
ruined, splintered, toppling walls. A red haze from the setting 
sun filled this passage. Lassiter climbed with slow, measured 
steps, and blood dripped from him to make splotches on the 
white stone. Jane tried not to step in his blood, but was com- 
pelled, for she found no other footing. The saddle-bag began to 
drag her down; she gasped for breath; she thought her heart was 
bursting. Slower, slower yet the rider climbed, whistling as 
he breathed. The incline widened. Huge pinnacles and monu- 
ments of stone stood alone, leaning fearfully. Red sunset haze 
shone through cracks where the wall had split. Jane did not 
look high, but she felt the overshadowing of broken rims above. 
She felt that it was a fearful, menacing place. And she climbed 
on in heartrending effort. And she fell beside Lassiter and Fay 
at the top of the incline on a narrow, smooth divide. 

He staggered to his feet — staggered to a huge, leaning rock 
that rested on a small pedestal. He put his hand on it — the 
hand that had been shot through — and Jane saw blood drip from 
the ragged hole. Then he fell. 

“Jane — I — can’t — do — it!” he whispered. 

“What.^^” 

“Roll the — stone! . , . All my — ^life I’ve loved — to roll 
stones — an’ now I — can’t!” 

“What of it? You talk strangely. Why roll that stone?” 

“I planned to — fetch you here — to roll this stone. See! 
It’ll smash the crags — loosen the walls — close the outlet!” 


THE FALL OF BALANCING ROCK 335 

As Jane WitFersteen gazed down that long incline, walled in 
by crumbling cliffs, awaiting only the slightest jar to make them 
fall asunder, she saw Tull appear at the bottom and begin to 
climb. A rider followed him — another — and another. 

“See! Tull! The riders!” 

“ Yes — they ’ll get us — ^now. ” 

“Why? ^ Haven’t you strength left to roll the stone?” 

“Jane — it ain’t that — I’ve lost my nerve!” 

“Fow/ . . . Lassiter!” 

I wanted to roll it meant to — but I — can’t. Venters’s 
valley is down behind here. We could— live there. But if I 
roll the stone — we’re shut in for always. I don’t dare. I’m 
thinkin’ of you!” 

“Lassiter! Roll the stone!” she cried. 

He arose, tottering, but with set face, and again he placed 
the bloody hand on the Balancing Rock. Jane Withersteen 
gazed from him down the passageway. Tull was climbiTi.g. 
Almost, she thought, she saw his dark, relentless face. Behind 
him more riders climbed. What did they mean for Fay — for 
Lassiter — for herself? 

Roll the stone! . . . Lassiter ^ I love youV^ 

Under all his deathly pallor, and the blood, and the iron of 
seared cheek and lined brow, worked a great change. He placed 
both hands on the rock, and then leaned his shoulder there and 
braced his powerful body. 

“Roll the stone!” 

It stirred, it groaned, it grated, it moved; and with a slow 
grinding, as of wrathful relief, began to lean. It had waited 
ages to fall, and now was slow in starting. Then, as if suddenly 
instinct with life, it leaped hurtlingly down to alight on the steep 
incline, to bound more swiftly into the air, to gather momentum, 
to plunge into the lofty leaning crag below. The crag thundered 
into atoms. A wave of air — a splitting shock! Dust shrouded 


336 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 

the sunset red of shaking rims; dust shrouded Tull as he fell 
on his knees with uplifted arms. Shafts and monuments and 
sections of wall fell majestically. 

From the depths there rose a long-drawn rumbling roar. The 
outlet to Deception Pass closed forever. 


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